


Harry Potter & The Wizarding World: Book I - The Dark Arts

by SeprithLiCastia



Series: The Wizarding World of Seprith Li Castia [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Hogwarts First Year, James Potter Lives, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape Friendship, Lily Evans Potter Lives, Magic, Ravenclaw Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 120,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeprithLiCastia/pseuds/SeprithLiCastia
Summary: Harry Potter, a first year student at Hogwarts School, is caught up with his studies and school rivalries as he begins his first journey into true magic with the aid of his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirinus Quirrell. Meanwhile Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived, faces a remnant of his past.





	1. A Potter Family Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I should finally get around to uploading the first story I ever wrote. It holds up pretty well, all and all. If I wrote it now, I might change a bit here and there, but I still like it well enough.
> 
> Your advice will be a little out-dated (this book is already finished), but still I would like to hear your thoughts. Tell me what works, what does not; what you like, what you do not. Might help Book Two and it is always nice to get another opinion.

James Potter had never much cared for Ministry of Magic politics. He cared for the politics of the International Confederation of Wizards even less. Politics in general, James believed, was best avoided whenever possible. With this belief in mind, he would later find it ironic that he had been there to witness what was easily going to go down in history as one of the most shocking things ever said by a politician because whatever might be said of his personality, James Potter was not dim. He could see the signs and the Minister Bagnold was one good dirty look away from hexing someone. The reason for this, as far as James was concerned, was entirely ridiculous.

 

Not even forty-eight hour ago one of the most terrible ordeals in modern history – rivaled only by Gellert Grindelwald’s reign of terror in years now long past – had come to an end. Ever since the rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers, his “ _Death Eaters_ ”, wizarding Britain had been the site of horrific atrocities: attacks on the non-magical Muggle population, strange disappearances and murders; sometimes of whole families, children and all. However, after nearly a decade of fear and terror and war, it all came to a sudden end. On the 31st of October, 1981, You-Know-Who personally targeted a single wizarding family. Intent on killing them all, he traveled alone and murdered the parents first. Then, as he turned his wand on the child and cast the unblockable Killing Curse against the family’s one-year old baby boy, he died. The most powerful dark wizard in history had been killed by a simple babe.

 

With their leader gone, the Death Eaters fell into disarray; their movement shattered. All of magical Britain celebrated and hailed the now orphaned child as their hero; Neville Longbottom, the “Boy-Who-Lived.” Such was their joy and happiness that the celebrating communities had taken to the streets and greeted their Muggle neighbors as old friends and recounted the story of the wizarding world’s savior, complete with elaborate displays of magic to emphasize and aggrandize the tale.

 

This celebrating – not the miracle that caused it – was the source of James Potter’s current predicament. Acting as an escort for the British Minister for Magic, James stood as an Auror guard by one of the I.C.W.’s courtroom doors, his eyes traveling along rows-and-rows of witches and wizards wearing formal dress-robes as their assessing eyes bore down on the two people standing below them.

 

With the stern and “no nonsense” posture that was his custom, Bartemius Crouch bore the judgmental gazes with practiced ease as he looked up at the raised platform where the formal-dressed judges sat in their comfortable, lush chairs while he idly brushed away imaginary dust from his immaculate crimson colored Auror robes that denoted his position as the Head for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement of Britain.

 

Standing beside him and with a notably less composed stance was the British Minster for Magic, Millicent Bagnold. She was short when compared to Crouch’s rigidity-induced height, her hair was frazzled where his was combed and well-tended to, and the lines on her not-so-old face were scrunched into a glare that could have cast a Killing Curse themselves had they not been brown in color.

 

_Clank! Clank!_

 

Pulled from his observations by the swift strikes of a gavel coming from the upper platforms, James turned his focus onto the only standing judge and the one holding said instrument.

 

Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School, stood in his usual fashion of long wizard robes of a garish color – this time a bright orange that clashed mightily with the dark and dank courtroom. “If we may begin,” said Dumbledore in his grandfatherly tone often used for his students. “I, Albus P.B.W. Dumbledore, acting in my office as Supreme Mugwump, do bring to order this court hearing. With charges having been levied by the International Confederation of Wizards against the Ministry for Magic of Britain, I--”

 

“With respect, Dumbledore,” interrupted one irate Minister Bagnold. “What charges would that be!?”

 

“As I was about to say before being so politely interrupted, Millicent,” chided Dumbledore as if Bagnold was once again another of his students. “I thus present the charges: numerous infractions, by a multitude of wizarding Britain residents, under the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, Clause Seventy-Three--”

 

“How, may I ask, is such a breech worth calling the Minster for Magic and Head of the D.M.L.E. half way across the world?” inquired the clipped tones of Barty Crouch. “If such a breach were, indeed, made I would think you would bring forth the accused, not their Ministry.”

 

“Why, I’m so glad you asked!” exclaimed Dumbledore with apparent joy. “Clause Seventy-Three, as I am sure you know, states that each ‘wizarding governing body’ – that is to say, the Ministries of Magic – will be responsible for their charges. Since there are indeed so many infractions recorded here we cannot feasibly call forth each infractor.”

 

A thoughtful look then crossed his face and James knew whatever Dumbledore would next say would definitely be hilarious. He was not disappointed: “If we do take such a course of action, I advise we start with a Mister Dedalus Diggle – it says here that he has been charged with causing a downpour of shooting-stars near Kent.” Dumbledore waved a piece of parchment around before staring reminiscently at the moving photograph of a tiny, excitable wizard before saying, “Why, I remember a time when young Mr. Diggle performed a similar feat of magic at Hogwarts. Sadly, the house banners in the Great Hall did not survive the fire. I don’t believe Minerva has really quite forgiven the man, but one may hardly admonish the boy for End of the Year enthusiasm. Top marks in Charms that year, too.”

 

Pointedly ignoring the muffled snickers of the young Auror by the doors, Bagnold gave a rough “Herm-Herm” before saying, “Unless you intend I arrest every single witch and wizard in all of Britain, I would think these instances may be excused.”

 

“Excused!” shouted a plump French witch with graying hair seated on the platform. “Preposterous! Your people have made a mockery of th’s court and should be punish’d!”

 

Before Dumbledore could say anything – and he did try – Bagnold exploded, “ _We_ are preposterous!? In the course of a single night, the worst Dark Lord in recent history dies – slain by a baby, no less – and his followers are routed. This all after nearly a decade of war and terror, and you expect me to punish them for being happy about it ending!” By the end of those impassioned words, her voice had gone shrill and sounded more mermish than witch. Without waiting for a reply and with a huff of anger that sounded positively feral, Millicent Bagnold stormed off towards the exit. In his rush to open the door for the stampeding witch, James nearly tripped over his own feat. Bagnold was nearly out the door – Crouch just two steps behind her – when a voice stopped the:

 

“A statement, if you would,” said Dumbledore as his eyes twinkled with mirth. “For the court records, you understand…”

 

Millicent Bagnold turned on her heels with a grace more suited to a trained ministry Hit-wizard than its minister and fixed the kindly old wizard with a heated glare. “Fine!” she roared through clenched teeth.

 

Summoning up all the wit and intelligence befitting her school days as a student of Ravenclaw House, she boldly proclaimed, “As the Minster for Magic of Britain, and in defiance of the I.C.W., _I assert our inalienable right to party_ in the face of this miracle and would like to personally thank Neville Longbottom, the boy who lived when others did not, for giving it to us.” She took in the shocked looks of the judges and the broadly smiling face of Albus Dumbledore before adding, “Now, if you will excuse me, we have actual work that needs doing and there are still Death Eaters that need to be captured. _Good day_.”

 

With that departing remark, Bagnold stormed out of the courtroom followed by a stoic Barty Crouch and her chortling Auror escort, James Potter. The courtroom watched in mute silence as Dumbledore waved them off with twinkling eyes.

 

“She hasn’t changed in the slightest,“ the elderly wizard quietly remarked to himself.

 

* * *

 

Lily Potter née Evans made soft cooing noises into a bundle of blankets as she laid them down into the crib. Quiet giggles met her efforts in reply as the small baby boy’s eyes drifted closed. “You’re such a sweet boy, Harry,” gushed the red-haired mother, Lily. “You’re going to grow up to be such a wonderful man. I can see it now; ‘ _Outstandings_ ’ on all your tests, a Prefect; maybe even Head Boy!“

 

“Lily, I think you’re going to ruin the boy with ambitions like that,” commented Sirius Black, who was leaning against the nursery room’s doorframe. “You also forgot the most important role he’ll play: Quidditch prodigy and future star Seeker for Puddlemere United!"

 

“Sirius Black,” yelled Lily as loud as she could without waking the sleeping baby, all the while glaring at him with her green colored eyes. “It will be a long time after I’m gone and buried before the most my son will make of himself is as a human practice dummy for Bludgers!”

 

Sirius’ only reaction – far from quaking in fear as the irate mother had hoped – was a deep laugh. Wiping his moist eyes, Sirius said, “I’m sure, with a mother like you, I’ll be the god-father to the next Minister for Magic.”

 

“I don’t know about Harry being minister,” admitted Lily as she gazed lovingly at the quietly sleeping boy. “But he could certainly be a teacher. _Professor_ Harry Potter; that has a nice ring to it, doesn’t, Harry?” The baby gave no reply, but Lily seemed to take his silence as an affirmation all the same.

 

“How about ‘ _Auror_ Harry Potter,’ like his daddy,” Sirius suggested as he looked over the edge of the crib down at the baby boy. “How does that sound, huh?”

 

The baby slept and gave no reply. Lily, however, hissed a denial, “Absolutely not! There has been enough fighting done. After what happened to Frank and Alice, I think all Potters have had enough of dark wizards to last a life time.” She paused then and gave Sirius a measured look before asking, “Where is James, anyway? Crouch can’t need him this much; he hasn’t been home in three days!”

 

His gray eyes clouding behind curtains of loosely hanging dark hair, Sirius answered plainly, “ _Work_. Crouch is still running his Death Eater tribunals and all the Aurors are busy either hunting or playing security guard. Be glad he’s doing the latter; this morning I heard ol’ Mad-eye lost a bit of himself taking down Evan Rosier. James is guarding a Karklof – or something like that – right now; his trial is tomorrow.”

 

“So that’s it,” murmured Lily before looking down at her son again. “I guess it’s just us and Uncle Sirius again tonight, Harry.” Glancing back at Sirius, she said, “What about you, Sirius? Dumbledore already dissolved the Order of the Phoenix so your ‘I’m working for the Order’ excuse is gone. When are you going to get a job?”

 

Scratching the forming stubble of his black beard, Sirius awkwardly replied, “I’m looking-- Now don’t give me that look, Lily! I am! Things are just a little crazy right now. Diagon Alley is still in such a buzz; I don’t think they’ve opened their shops in the week since You-Know-Who was defeated.”

 

Lily gave a haughty “Humph” that fully conveyed her opinion on his excuse before her eyes took on a saddened glaze and she said, “Did you hear about Severus’ trial?”

 

It took a second before Sirius realized who and what she was talking about. “Snivellus,” he began before correcting himself at Lily’s glare. “Severus Snape? Well, _eh_ , yeah, I heard. Crouch pulled him up on trial for being a Death Eater, but Dumbledore stepped in and said he was a spy for the Order.” Sirius stopped there because he knew if he continued anymore he was likely to say something he would regret. Estranged friendship or not, Lily still didn’t like it when James or Sirius insulted their old Slytherin house rival.

 

“He was spying for Dumbledore, against You-Know-Who, even though he--“ Lily trailed off there, no doubt remembering when her former best-friend called her a “Mudblood.” “He was spying for us and I didn’t even know.”

 

“He was still a Death Eater,” pointed out Sirius, more than a little disturbed by his best friend’s wife’s apparent sympathy for Snape. “Who knows how long he was actually a spy.” Or if he ever really was, he quietly added to himself.

 

“I know, I know,” she said with a wave of her hand. Lily traced the edges of her sleeping son’s face with her soft fingers, wiping a strand of black hair from his face and focused on his closed eyelids, where she knew a match to her own emerald eyes rested. “How are Remus and Peter?” she changed the subject.

 

More than a little relieved to not be talking about Severus Snape, Sirius answered with a smile, “They’re both perfectly fine. Remus is laying low; worried about people trying to take revenge on any werewolves, I suspect. Peter is-- well I don’t know where Peter is. I don’t think I’ve seen him since the Order meeting right after the Longbottoms…” he trailed off there, leaving out the “were killed” he was about to add.

 

“Neither have I,” admitted Lily as a frown formed on her lips. “He was so scared then, too. I didn’t notice much, I was so worried about poor little Neville then, but he was… twitching, I guess you could say. Like he was afraid someone would attack him.”

 

“Maybe that was just his way of showing relief?” Sirius offered. “He was your Secret-Keeper, after all. Even if everyone thought it was me, he might have still been afraid somebody would target him if they found out. Maybe you should take down the Fidelius Charm; it might make him feel better. You don’t really need it now, anyway.”

 

“Maybe,” the mother of Harry Potter muttered. “But what if--”

 

Whatever she would have said was drowned out as an explosion sounded from the front door of the Potter’s home in Godric’s Hollow. Quickly pulling out their wands, Lily took a defensive position next to the baby’s crib as Sirius rushed to the window to get a look outside. “Bellatrix!” he exclaimed, recognizing his cousin as the cackling face of the dark haired woman pointing her smoking wand at the house. “How did she get here? What about the Fidelius? What happened to Peter!?”

 

Lily Potter gave no reply, but her narrowed eyes showed her resolve. Her family had survived the war; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was gone. She would not let her son be killed by one of his followers.

 

* * *

 

James Potter was exhausted. After working almost non-stop for nearly three days at the Ministry, he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with his lovely Lily-flower and listen as she sang softly to their baby boy – James’ son, and it was still so new and wonderful to say he had a son – while James drifted off into peaceful slumber. It was with that happy thought in mind that James appeared on the road leading into Godric’s Hollow with the tell-tale _pop!_ of an experienced Apparition. Straightening his crumbled up red Auror robes and hoping there were no Muggles still awake to see his wizarding styled clothes, James started off down the road.

 

The street was dark, even for a Muggle town at this time of night. The street lights were out and the houses were only visible because of the half-moon lighting up the night sky high above. Either because of his Auror training or because of his work for the Order, James immediately felt an intense feeling of worry. Picking up his pace, James rushed down the street. When at last his home came into view, James felt a rushing sense of relief. The house was fine; he was just overreacting. Too much work.

 

However, just as he was about to admonish himself for his paranoid thoughts, he noticed something. All the lights inside were off, but there was a brief flash of light from inside; green first, then red, and lastly blue. Just as the blue light lit up the house, James heard a contained explosion from inside – one that went unnoticed by the Muggle neighbors. ‘ _The Reductor Curse!_ ’ James realized as he slipped his wand from the inner folds of his robe.

 

Before he was able to storm his home, however, there was a flash of green from the door. Instinctively side-stepping the green streak of light, James had just enough time to recognize it before having his fears confirmed as a male voice shouted, “ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

 

Rushing out of the infamous Killing Curse’s path, James raised his wand and countered, “Petrificus Totalus!” Moving away from the door, a dark-robed figure wearing an ornate silver mask – a Death Eater, James knew - batted the invisible Fully Body-Bind Curse away before answering with another sickly green Killing Curse.

 

James narrowly avoided the spell before casting a desperate Confingo. The Blasting Curse missed the agile Death Eater, but managed to hit the stone wall behind him. Showered with concrete splinters from the destroyed wall, the Death Easter had little time to react. “ _Stupefy_!” shouted James. With no time to react, the silver-masked dark wizard was struck with the red colored Stunning Spell before falling backwards, unconscious. James rushed towards the fallen Death Eater, who had collapsed on a rose bush. Wand leveled with the silver mask, James tore off the mask and froze at what he saw beneath it.

 

Taken as is, the shockingly thin man with a sharp nose and brown colored hair was unremarkable, but, knowing who he was, James was terrified. The face of Rabastan Lestrange, one of the now fallen Dark Lord’s most loyal followers, greeted James beneath the mask. While not the fiercest of opponents, Rabastan and his older brother, Rodolphus, had gained a reputation for brutality and sadism. Even worse, however, was Bellatrix – Rabastan’s sister-in-law and Rodolphus’ wife – who was said to be You-Know-Who’s most ferocious and dangerous follower. Worse still, they always fought together; which meant that if Rabastan was here, so were…

 

“Lily! Harry!” Overcome with fear for his wife and infant son, James rushed into the house. The door had already been blown open and the living area was in ruins, a small fire burning in the corner. Not wasting time with his destroyed home, James rushed up the nearby stair-case. Before even reaching the top, however, James heard, “ _Sectumsempra_!” followed by the sound of tearing flesh. Finally reaching the top, James saw the forms of two black robed wizards standing over a crouched form James easily recognized as Sirius Black, who had a deep gash in his wand-arm that was heavily bleeding.

 

With a deep laugh, the taller of the two Death Eaters aimed their wand at Sirius’ face. The Killing Curse no doubt on his lips, the Death Eater suddenly arched on his feet as Sirius raised his bleeding arm and shouted, “ _Locomotor Wibbly_!” The tall Death Eater was struck by the Jelly-Legs Curse and instantly his legs seemed buckle under the weight of his own body, the dark wizard falling to his knees. Wasting no time, James cast a quick Stunning Spell at his back, sending him crashing face first into the carpet. The shorter Death Eater quickly turned on his heel, wand raised and aiming for James, before meeting a like fate by the same red spell cast at his back by Sirius.

 

With both Death Eaters unconscious on the ground, Sirius collapsed onto both his knees with an exhausted sigh. James eyed the two Death Eater’s faces – their masks having fallen off either earlier or as they fell. One was clearly the thick-set Rodolphus Lestrange, but James failed to recognize the young, pale Death Eater with straw-colored hair and freckles beside him. Casting his eyes around the room for anymore fallen Death Eaters and finding none, James turned his attention back to Sirius and shouted, “Sirius, where’s-!“

 

“Down the hall!” grunted the dark haired man as he held his wand over the cut on his arm. “Bellatrix rushed past me and went after Lily. Go, James! Lily needs you!”

 

Without even a nod in reply, James stormed off down the hall towards Harry’s nursery – where he knew Lily would make her last stand of defense. As he came upon the slightly ajar door, however, James heard something that sent his blood freezing. Screaming. _Lily’s_ screams. Rushing into the room with haste unknown even to him, James had just enough time to see the dark form of Bellatrix Lestrange, silhouetted by moonlight, with her wand aimed towards the floor at the prone Lily before hissing out, “ _Crucio_!” and Lily’s haggard breathes were replaced by a blood curdling scream as Harry gave a wailing cry from his crib in the corner. Bellatrix cackled gleefully at the scene of horror.

 

With a rage never before known to him, James Potter lifted his want and roared, “ ** _Reducto_**!” Bellatrix had just enough time to throw up a hasty Shield Charm – _Protego!_ \- seconds before the blue wave of the over-powered Reductor Curse crashed against the transparent, bright blue of her Charm. Reducto versus Protego; the Reductor won as Bellatrix was sent off her feet and across the room where she crashed with a sickening _slam!_ against the wall before sliding down to the floor, bleeding and unconscious. A Stunning Spell met her when she landed for good measure.

 

Not even sparing the fallen Death Eater another glance or thought, James rushed across the room towards the downed Lily. Crouching down next to her, James yelled, “Lily! Lily, can you hear me!? Answer me, Lily!”

 

“ _Harry…_ Where’s Harry?” the exhausted Lily Potter wheezed as her dimly colored green eyes – that had once been so vibrant – flew from side-to-side, as if searching for her son.

 

James looked up towards the crib, where Harry had still not stopped crying. As he saw the tearful and struggling, but otherwise fine baby boy through the crib bars, James replied, “He’s fine, Lily! You protected him; he’s safe.” Looking back down at his now crying wife, her eyes sliding closed, James pleaded, “Stay with me! You’re such a good mother, Lily. Now stay with me, the Healers will be here soon. You and Harry are going to be fine.”

 

Despite his words, James could not stop the crack in his voice that erupted when he saw the dribble of blood the seeped from the red-haired mother’s lips. With a gurgled moan of “Harry,” Lily Potter’s eyes drifted closed as James called out to his wife, “Lily! Stay with me, Lily!”

 

Like that, in the arms of her sobbing husband, Lily Potter’s world went dark.

 

* * *

 

Emerald colored eyes opened up to greet the bright world before immediately closing shut in pain. The light was too bright. Moving slower this time, Lily Potter’s eyes gently opened. The light was still bright, but her pupils gradually adjusted to the world around her as the room came into view.

 

First and foremost, Lily realized she was laid out on a bed. Not her’s and James’ bed inside their home at Godric’s Hollow, she realized. The room around her was not even familiar; the bed was fairly plain and the walls were a neutral light-blue color. The light that so blinded her before was shining through a small window to her left. Worst of all, though, was the smell. A thick scent of _clean_ hovered in the air that reminded her a great deal of the Muggle hospitals she had been to in her youth for vaccinations. Strangely, that scent was mixed with what she recognized as the after effects of someone having used a potion.

 

Lily Evans had not been known as the “brightest witch of her age” for nothing. Hospital smell plus magical potion smells could mean only one thing: Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The where now solved, Lily turned towards the _why_. Almost as soon as the question came to mind, the answer soon followed. ‘ _Death Eaters attacked me,_ ’ thought Lily with an exhausted sense of detachment.

 

Before there was time for any other thoughts, the door directly across from her bed slowly opened. Expecting James to come in holding a perfectly safe Harry, the red-haired mother tried to sit up. Instantly she regretted the motion. Pain shot up her spine and every one of her bones felt as if they were on fire; like every nerve in her body was being sawed at with a rusty blade, all at the same time.

 

“Easy there, Mrs Potter,” urged the white robed man who had just walked into the room. “I’m afraid you’re suffering through the after-effects of a rather lengthy bit of time under the Cruciatus Curse. Nasty spell, that one.” The presumed healer made a slight “tisk-tisk” sound as he crossed the room.

 

Trying not to move as much as possible, Lily asked needlessly, “Where am I?”

 

“St. Mungos,” the apparent wizard healer answered. “Your husband brought you and another man in. I had to threaten him with the Stunning Spell to keep him out of this room while the Healers worked on you. Ah, but where are my manners? My name is Hippocrates Smethwyck,” he introduced with a charming smile on his – Lily now noticed – fairly young face. “I’m the apprentice Healer assigned to your recovery.” With introductions out of the way, Smethwyck pulled out his wand. As soon as it appeared in front of Lily’s face a small green light appeared. “Follow the light with your eyes, Mrs Potter.”

 

Doing as she was told, Lily followed the see-saw movement of the light; left to right, left to right. “Harry! Where’s Harry?” asked Lily as the light was pulled away.

 

“Harry?” apprentice Healer Smethwyck blinked confusedly before he seemed to realize who she meant. “The baby, you mean? The last time I saw him he was with your husband; the poor man seemed almost afraid to put the young tyke down. After what you’ve all been through, though, I can certainly understand why.”

 

“Can I see him?” There was no mistaking the pleading tone in Lily’s voice and it seemed Smethwyck noticed it as well.

 

Smethwyck’s eyes traced the sorrowful expression on her face before hesitantly stowing his wand back into his white robes. “I suppose,” he began hesitantly. “Just be careful now. Your body cannot take much stress now. I’ve been working here for more than a year now; you’re not my first Cruciatus victim, but you are the worst case I’ve ever heard of, especially with the side-effect.”

 

“Side-effect?” asked Lily with a little panic seeping into her voice. “What side effect?”

 

Suddenly very nervous, Smethwyck quickly began to back away towards the still open door. “I think it might be best if I let your husband explain.” Just like that he was gone; the open door swaying in his wake.

 

Lily was not left alone for long as, less than a minute after the Healer left, James came storming into the room. With his right arm wrapped around a bundle Lily knew must have Harry in it, James’ left hand worked its way to his wife’s face; as if only touch could prove she still lived.

 

 “I’m fine, James,” assured Lily as she clasped her hand around James’ much larger one – ignoring the ache such contact caused. “How’s Harry doing? Sirius? He was in the house, too.”

 

Still obviously shaken from seeing his still living wife, James answered distractedly, “Sirius is in the room down the hall. He’s fine, but a spell the Death Eaters used split open his arm. The Healer said he didn’t recognize the spell, but it was clearly Dark Magic. It’ll heal, but there’ll be a scar. Padfoot doesn’t mind; says it’s a ‘man’s scar’ or something like that.”

 

Chuckling lightly at the antics of her husband’s best friend, Lily shifted her eyes to the bundle in James’ arms. Catching the glance, James smiled happily before continuing, “Harry’s fine, Lily-flower. He’s sleeping now. You did wonderful protecting him. Not a scratch on him; no scar, not even a bruise.”

 

Lily gave a relieved smile before flinching as even that made her whole body ache. Breathing sharply and steadfastly ignoring the pain, she said, “I’m so glad. When Bellatrix caught me off guard and disarmed me, I was so afraid she was going to hurt Harry, but she just asked about the Longbottoms and what happened to You-Know-Who.”

 

The mention of the female Death Eater instantly wiped away any trace of the kind husband and caring father Lily had come to love. In his place was the rising-star in the Auror department. “She won’t be troubling anyone for a long while. I sent my Patronus Charm to the Ministry of Magic right after I called the Healers. Captain Bones – Amelia, that is; she’s Edgar’s sister – came in and took them all away. With Crouch up-and-about they’ll be seeing the Dementors any day now.” Briefly, James considered explaining Peter Pettigrew’s betrayal and escape, but that could wait for now.

 

Oblivious to her husband’s thoughts and wanting nothing more than a change of subject, Lily held out her hand and waved at the small baby in James’ arms. Lily’s emerald eyes met ones so much like her own in the baby and she smiled. Her son was safe, she was safe, and James was safe. All was well. “I’m so glad everyone’s fine, “ breathed Lily in relief. “Everything’s fine, little Harry. Your mummies here; so is your daddy.” Baby Harry giggled happily in response, but James seemed oddly quiet. Suddenly concerned and belatedly remembering Healer Smethwyck’s speedy exit, Lily asked, “James, what happened? What’s wrong?”

 

If Lily was concerned before, she was down-right terrified when she saw the frightened expression on James’ face; it was haunted, as though something was missing inside him; something that could never be replaced. He was quiet for a few minutes, but when he finally answered his voice was calm, unnaturally so. “I got to you as fast as I could, Lily. At least I tried to. Rabastan slowed me down, and then there was Rodolphus…”

 

 

“James, what happened!?” shouted Lily. She was not angry; she realized what James was doing: he was stalling. He was afraid of how she would react to whatever had happened. “I can take it, James. What happened?”

 

“ _The healers say you might be barren_.” The words came out in a rush, and if Lily had not been focused solely on him she might not have even heard them. However, she had heard him and whatever she might have thought James would say, that was not it. She was barren? She could not have any more children?

 

“H- _how_?” her voice was cracking, Lily realized.

 

“ _Bellatrix_ ,” hissed James was so much hate it could have powered the darkest of magics. “She cast the Cruciatus Cruse on you; the ‘Torture Curse.’ Normally it would just be a few seconds of unbearable pain, but she seemed to have been very angry and held you under for minutes. I didn’t really understand much of what the healer said – you could, I bet – but they told me that much. The spell damage destroyed portions of your nervous system; your healer was a muggle-born, otherwise they wouldn’t even have known what happened.”

 

Lily was quiet. Her eyes followed every little movement of Harry’s with a surreal sort of awe. He was so beautiful, and he would be so handsome when he grew up. James’ looks with her eyes; her brains with James’ brawns. Now James was telling her she could never have any more like him. Taking his wife’s silence as a urging to continue, James spoke softly, “You can still get pregnant, they said, but the shock of actually giving birth could kill you. The baby might survive, but you’d…” James went silent there, unable to think about Lily ever dying; especially not after what happened.

 

Lily, however, heard not a word of it. She was young, even when she gave birth to Harry she knew she was very young, so she had never really thought about having more children. The option was always there, though. She wondered what a little girl with her hair and James’ caramel eyes would look like.

 

An arm circled her shoulders and it was only then did she realize she was crying. James was silent, holding a confused looking Harry in one arm and his quietly sobbing wife in another.

 

It was there, in that embrace, two very hurt parents made two different promises.

 

Lily Potter promised her baby boy she would protect him, nurture him. He would be the best boy in the whole world; smart, funny, powerful, charming, happy, great; everything and anything he could ever want to be: that was her promise.

 

James Potter’s promise was to his family. He had failed to protect his wife, his son could have been killed, and now he would never have any more children. He would protect his family; above and beyond anything else, that he swore.

 

Looking at the two from in between them was little baby Harry James Potter. He saw everything around him with the eyes of a baby. To him, all was well; even if it was not really, but it could be. One day.

 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone noticed a trend in stories were James and Lily live that they always have more children? I wanted to avoid that and focus more on a Harry raised by his parents. No siblings.
> 
> Anyway, Harry will get his proper introduction next chapter. Except chapters to come fairly quickly -- this book is already done, after-all. Feel free to comment on whatever you like and do not forget to leave a Kudos if you liked it!


	2. Of Muggle School Boys

“Harry! Hurry up or you’re going to be late for school!” The voice of Lily Potter carried through the Potter’s two-story home of Godric’s Hollow.

 It had been four years since the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the wizarding world was finally pulling itself back together. Almost every Death Eater had been caught and sent off to Azkaban, the wizard prison. Most of all, though, the Potters were happy. Lily had been released from St. Mungo’s shortly after she was first admitted and life moved on. Her husband, James - who was still an Auror for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – worked long hours while Lily stayed home to take care of their son, Harry James Potter. A son who she now noticed had just reached the bottom of the stairs. He was shorter than average for his age. Upon first seeing her son, Lily was struck with a sense of fondness as the young boy before her looked so much like James; Harry had his father’s unruly black hair – something Lily claimed to hate, but could never stop smiling at – and looked a great deal like him, too.

 ‘ _Except the eyes,_ ’ Lily could not help herself from thinking proudly. ‘ _He has my eyes._ ’ Harry’s eyes were a vivid shade of emerald, possibly even brighter than Lily’s own. Smiling at the intense frown on her baby boy’s adorable young face, Lily asked, “What’s wrong? Don’t you like your clothes?”

 Harry looked down at his clothes. They were Muggle dress: a white short sleeved button-up shirt with brown trouser shorts and a blue bow-tie. Judging from the grimace that came across his face at the sight, the five-year old boy did not approve. “Mum,” asked Harry with a strained sort of smile and an absent tug on his collar. “Do I really have to go Muggle? I can wear my dress robes even; anything is better than this! It's so tight!” He gave another tug on his collar for good measure and seemed to be shuffling his feet, attempting to loosen his buckled shoes.

 Shaking her head at the display, Lily’s smile never wavered as she said, “Then how are you going to blend in with all the other children at your new school?”

 “Our kind doesn’t even start school until we’re eleven,” stressed Harry with an irritated sort of screech that was far too high-pitched to be intimidating like she knew he wanted it to be. “It’s only the Muggles who insist on torturing their children with this.” He waved dramatically at his Muggle clothing for emphasis.

 “You sound just like your father,” commented Lily distastefully. “That’s the trouble with growing up only in the magical world: you have no respect for the Muggle way of life.” Seeing her son was about to comment, she added, “Yes, Harry, the Muggles have a great deal to teach magicals.”

 Lily pointedly ignored Harry’s mumbling of “You sound just like Albus Dumbledore.”

 “Besides,” continued Lily. “You’ll like it; trust me! Your cousin, Dudley, will be going to the same school.”

 Far from being relieved by the news, Harry seemed stricken. “The walrus is going, too!” Harry’s shriek left a soft ringing in his mother’s ears. “Mum, please, no. He’s mean! You remember what he did when I tried to show him my Chocolate Frog Card collection! He freaked and ripped up the card! I still haven’t been able to find another _Wendelin the Weird_.”

 “That may be true,” conceded Lily with a frown. “But he was just scared, Harry.”

 “Why? It’s just a card. Muggles have those, too. Uncle Remus told me so.” The confused expression on the young boy’s face would have been cute if it was not for the glare in his eyes.

 “Yes, Muggles have cards, but the pictures don’t move on them,” pointed out Lily.

 “Really? That’s weird.” Harry was totally confused now. “But if the pictures don’t move, what’s the point? That’d be pretty boring.”

 “And that,” sighed an anguished Lily. “Is precisely why you’re going to a Muggle school with your cousin. I will not have another man in this house I have to teach how to say ‘electricity’! Now come on; you’re probably going to be late for class as it is.” Stalling her son’s imminent question of “What’s electricity?” Lily grabbed the boy’s fore-arm and rushed towards the door, grabbing Harry’s school bag on the way out.

 Godric’s Hollow had changed very little since You-Know-Who’s fall. As a primarily Muggle town with the odd numbered wizarding families living there. There was not much reason for it to change, but even the Muggles would still probably tell you the quaint little community had become a little cheerier since the 31st of October, 1981. Fully aware of this, Lily rushed out the door with a haste only a mother trying to get her son to school on time could accomplish. Making a sharp left in their yard, Lily pulled Harry behind a hedge that was tall enough to block them from the view of their closest Muggle neighbor who was outside watering his lawn.

 Holding his breathe in preparation for what he knew was to come, Harry was not the least bit surprised when his world went black. He felt as though he was being pressed very roughly from all directions and the sensation that things like iron bands were tightening around his chest. His eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his ear-drums were being pushed deeper into his skull; then, finally, he felt as though he were being pushed through a very long and very tight tube of glass. As suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Harry felt his whole body pivot on one spot and he nearly lost his footing when all of his senses came back to him, but a pair of slender arms stopped him. Glancing up at the person who caught him, Harry was not surprised to see the smiling face of his mother.

 “I’m so proud of you, Harry,” said Lily with love and pride beaming out of her eyes. “You did wonderfully. I know that wasn’t your first time – James can be so irresponsible – but it took me dozens of tries before I stopped, eh- _relieving_ myself every time I was Apparated.” Harry tried to smile; or say thank you, something, but he was too afraid he still might “relieve” himself on his mother's shoes. Deciding a nod was the safest option, he bobbed his head a little, his face turning green with the motion, and his mother just smiled even wider.

 Not wasting time now, Lily took her son by the hand and hurried on. The two had appeared in a small grove surrounded by tall trees, but Harry could still hear the far-off sound of children screaming from near the edge of their wooded seclusion, which was precisely the direction his mother was taking him. When they reached the edge of the grove, Lily Potter pointed towards a large building less than a block away and said, “There’s your school, Harry; St. Grogory's Primary School. Aunt Petunia doesn’t live far from here, you know?”

 Harry did not know, but he did not really care either. His Muggle Aunt Petunia was a horrible woman; both to him and his mum. Her husband, Uncle Vernon, was not any better. Neither was their fat walrus of a son. Harry said none of this, though, and simply put on a strained smile and allowed himself to be dragged. When Lily and Harry reached the school grounds there was an overly-large woman wearing spectacles with pinned up hair yelling, “New students over here! New first year students over here!”

 “There’s your teacher,” Harry’s mother said. Turning to her son and kneeling down next to him, Lily gave the five year old a hug before saying, “I love you, Harry. Be safe and learn a lot. I’ll be right here when school ends to take you home.”

 Hugging his mother maybe just a little tighter than usual, Harry replied, “I love you, too, mum.” When the hug was finally broken apart, Harry turned a nervous look towards the growing group of children forming around the portly woman. Feeling nervous about being around so many Muggles, Harry found himself asking in a shaky whisper, “Where’s Dad?” His dad was wizard raised; he would understand this. He would know why a lone – small – wizard boy in such a big group of Muggles was a bad idea. He could not even show them his Chocolate Frog Card collection!

 Frowning slightly, Lily placed a reassuring hand on her son’s shoulder. “Daddy’s working, Harry,” she tried to explain to the little boy. “He’s off catching the bad people, but he wishes he could be here.” That made sense to Harry; his father was always working. Smiling down at her beautiful boy, Lily handed him his school-bag and said, “Go on now, Harry. Everything is going to be fine. I’ll be right here after school to pick you up.”

 Harry gave a stiff nod before tossing his bag over his shoulder and running up to the growing crowd of students; a crowd, Harry noticed, that already included his walrus of a cousin, Dudley Dursley. As he watched the other children smile and laugh, Harry found himself hoping. “Maybe this won’t be so bad?” mused Harry. However, the young boy missed the dirty look his cousin was sending him.

 

* * *

 

It might sound strange, but Harry James Potter preferred the taste of dry dirt over wet mud. How did an eight year old form such an intimate opinion about the taste of dirt you might ask? Sadly, the answer was looking him – quite literally - in the face at this very moment.

 Standing only an inch or two taller than Harry – not a difficult challenge, considering – was a boy. His loosely hanging red hair, bale white skin, and the large collection of freckles on his face easily made the boy stand out amongst a crowd, but at the current moment and in between spitting out mouthfuls of brown mud, only one feature interested the shaggy haired Potter child: the lump of more mud in the boy’s hand. The red head’s terrified brown eyes met the cold glare of Harry’s emerald green orbs. The boy’s noticeably trembling arms and legs seemed to give a shutter, but he did not move. Holding his ground, the boy yelled out, “L-like the taste, P-potter!? I’ve got more!” The boy raised his mud filled hand in an obvious gesture, but instead of fulfilling his threat the boy sent a fearful look over his shoulder.

 Harry, turning his hateful glare away from the red haired boy, looked to see what the other boy was so afraid of. Unfortunately, it was no surprise what either boy found; a fat boy by the name of Dudley Dursley, surrounded by a group of friends, and at once everything suddenly made sense. You see, despite having attended St. Grogory’s Primary School for the past three years, the now eight-year-old Harry was probably the least popular student there. His teachers liked him well enough, he was the brightest student in most of his classes after all, but the students tried to avoid him completely. Some had even taken to bulling him and leading the “Let’s Hate Harry Potter Club” was Harry’s own cousin, Dudley Dursley.

 It had not always been that way. When Harry had first started school he was actually fairly popular, but after Dudley began bullying anyone who was ever nice to the Potter boy, the other students caught on. It also never escaped the other student’s notice that when they bullied Harry themselves, Dudley would be too busy laughing at his cousin to start picking on them. It was this detail that likely made the freckle faced red head throw a hand full of mud at Harry. The red head was not the first to do this, not even the first to throw mud and if the look he was sending Dudley now – one of fear and repressed terror – was any hint, this freckled boy was one of Dudley’s favorite to torment; second to Harry, of course.

 From where he stood watching the two only a few feet away, Dudley Dursley gave a savage grin and sent the red head a sharp nod before holding his fists up in the air. Apparently getting the implied threat, the red haired boy gave a shaky nod before throwing the handful of mud at the Potter child’s face. The halfhearted throw, however, only caused the mud to land on Harry’s clothes. Dudley seemed satisfied all the same because he and his buddies let out uproars of laugher while the red head ran off. Watching both these things, Harry glared at his cousin as he tried to wipe off the filthy mud away from his clothes while cursing the rain from the day before. Harry knew he would have to explain to his teacher how he had fallen down again and they already thought he was clumsy.

 Likely the most frustrating thing of all, however, was that Harry knew his cousin would probably be too busy mocking Harry about all this to actually bully the red haired boy for some time and that would only encourage the other victims of Dudley’s harassment to seek him out in the future, as they had before. It was because to this facet of childhood innocence turned cruelty that had led to other such incidents in the past. When someone threw a piece of bread at Harry during lunch one day, everybody laughed. When one boy tripped him the next week causing all of his books to fall out of his bag, everybody laughed. On and on, the bullying continued.

 It was never physical; like punches or fighting. Dudley himself learned early on that when you beat up on Harry Potter strange things would happen to you. Once, two years ago, Dudley had kicked Harry in the shins one morning and, after Harry had spent two hours glaring at his head, Dudley’s hair had turned bright pink. Another time – after a particularly savage beating – the teachers found Dudley on top of the school. When asked how he got there, he said Harry did it. No one believed him, of course; how could a six year old boy do that?

 Nobody at school knew about Harry’s true heritage besides Dudley and Harry himself. Because the truth was, Harry Potter was a wizard; something Dudley dare not tell anyone. So – deprived of actually being able to cause his cousin physical pain, Dudley went for a less direct approach: making Harry’s life miserable. He had succeeded, for the most part. From morning until late afternoon, Harry Potter was alone, bitter, and angry for it all. It all stopped on the doorstep of the Potter home in Godric’s Hollow, though. Harry’s father – James – was rarely ever home so he did not notice much, but Harry’s mother, Lily, knew perfectly well what her son was going through and despite her many confrontations with her sister, Petunia – Dudley’s mother – the bullying continued.

 They only way for him to avoid such treatment at school was to stay near the adults. As a result, one of Harry’s favorite haunts was his Muggle school’s library. Often times, the young Harry Potter could be found walking down the aisles of the library looking for a book to read. His mother had first turned him onto reading as a young child and he took to it like a Doxy to a messy house’s drapes. He preferred books from his world, the magical world, but since he was not allowed to carry those types of books outside of his home, these Muggle ones would have to do. Even if his primary school’s books were meant for little children. Regardless, like many lonely youths before him, the young Potter found solace by reading about the adventures of the characters he found in books.

 Because of this, it was no surprise to once again find Harry dressed in his usual Muggle clothes of button up shirts and trouser shorts as he looked over the book shelves with his emerald colored eyes framed by a pesky set of squared-rimmed glasses – he had realized he needed them only last year; his mother wanted to get him circle-rimmed glasses like his father’s, but Harry insisted on being different.

 Since Muggles were rarely known for their interesting children’s books it was often times difficult for him to find truly engaging story books – really; how could _Snow White_ compare to Beedle the Bard’s ‘ _Tale of the Three Brothers_ ’? – so more and more, Harry found himself turning to the fantasy and historical sections. It was in one of these sections that Harry found an interesting title of one of the books that caught his eye: _Witch Hunts of the Middle Ages_.

 With a rueful smile, Harry Potter pulled the book from the shelf. A Muggle book about magic? From what he had found him other books, the Muggles had a strange way of thinking about magic and often times it was humorous to see how they interpreted the various magical events and creatures they had encountered over time since they were usually wrong. “This should be worth a laugh,” he mused before opening the book.

 The cover had been of a deep forest painted by brush to show the deep and rich shades of green. It was for this reason Harry was so disturbed by the crude illustration on the first page of the book. A blonde haired young woman – not even as old as his mum, Harry realized – was tied to a burning log. Her face was contorted in apparent agony as she screamed against the flames that surrounded her. All the while Muggles stood around her; smiling; laughing at her suffering.

 Without even realizing it, Harry’s hands began to tremble. Overcome with an emotion he could not even begin to label, Harry snapped the book closed. He stared into the deep forest that was this terrible book’s cover for un-told minutes.

 “Is that what the Muggles think they did?” Before even realizing why the book bothered him so much, he had spoken the question to seek an answer. It was no new thing to him, these Muggle witch burnings; his _Wenedlin the Weird_ Chocolate Frog card that Dudley had destroyed all those years ago was of one such witch. Wenedlin had enjoyed the sensation caused by the Muggle flames so much she had allowed herself to be captured and burned alive at the stake. Using various fire-freezing charms and disguises, she had repeated the process over and over again for fun. Harry still remembered first reading that and smiling. “Those silly muggles,” he had thought, just like every other wizard who read it. This, though, was completely different. The Muggles thought they had actually killed people, and in such horrible ways. Just because they had magic.

 As Harry continued to stare, horrified, at the book he suddenly felt something creep up on him. Turning around just in time to narrowly avoid a water balloon that flew passed him and struck the book shelf behind him, narrowly missing an actual book. Standing in front of him was Piers Polkiss – Dudley’s best mate and one of Harry chief tormentors – grinning.

 “Looks like I missed you, freaky-Potty,” jeered Polkiss. His grin suddenly turned feral and he let out a cackling laugh.

 For some unknown reason, despite how many times a situation just like this one had arisen in the past, Harry was afraid. For some reason the face of those Muggles from the book came to mind; the same ones who had been burning the blond witch. ‘ _Polkiss and Dudley would be all for burning me,_ ’ Harry found himself thinking and it was that thought that made him afraid. Without another sound, the Muggle witch hunting book fell out of Harry’s trembling fingers. “Stay away!” Harry found himself yelling as threw up his hands to block Polkiss from view. “Stay away, Muggle!”

 Harry heard a terrible scream, but did not bother to look and see what it was as ran from the room as fast as his knobby knees and tiny legs would take him.

 If he had looked back, though, he would have seen Piers Polkiss rolling on the ground trying to put out the fire that had just sprouted from his hair.

 

* * *

 

“James, you know how these sorts of things work. It’s no big deal,” comforted Arnold "Arnie" Peasegood with a soft and friendly pat on the back.

 Auror Captain James Potter looked up into the smiling face of the registered Ministry of Magic Obliviator, Arnie Peasegood. Arnie had short-cropped black hair with a few days’ worth of fuzz along his jaw-line. Arnie was also wore a set of mismatched Muggles clothes that all seemed to be of the same style, but were all different colors.

 “Thanks for coming out here, Arnie,” said James with a weak sort of smile.

 “Hey, it’s my job.” With a casual shrug of his shoulders, Arnie added, “Besides, I owe you more than just one lousy Memory Charm, boss.”

 Looking past Arnie, James saw a small Muggle boy around the age of eight. He was sleeping safely in his bed with a soft, contented smile on his face; as though he did not have a care in the world. Not even a single trace of singe on his full head of hair that, up until an hour ago, had been bald with a burnt scalp.

 “He won’t remember a thing, right?” asked James worriedly as his eyes fixed on the boy’s unharmed scalp.

 “Not a thing,” Arnie confirmed. “That’s just standard procedure, is all. I got some guys handling the teachers and such right now.” When James continued to stare vacantly, he added, “You don’t have ta worry, Cap’n. Harry’s perfectly fine; it was just some accidental magic. Probably got scared is all. Least you know he ain’t a Squib or anything.”

 “That I’m not worried about; far from it,” Of that, James was sure. Harry had been doing accidental magic since he was a baby; enchanting balls, summoning toys, so on. No; what worried him was something altogether different. Deciding not to voice that thought, James instead said, “Thanks for coming anyway, and for not telling anyone.”

 “Don’t worry, I ain’t one for spreading stuff around,” Arnie assured. “Last thing you need right now is somebody like Malfoy’s lot getting wind of your son Cursing a Muggle; accidental magic or no.” Pulling up his sleeve, Arnie glanced at his wrist watch before letting out a low whistle. “Look at the time. ‘Bout time I mosey on out of here. See ya back at the office.”

 With a soft _pop!_ Arine Peasegood was gone. Casting one last glance down at the Muggle boy, James disappeared in his own _pop!_ of Apparition. Almost instantly, James appeared on the door-step to his home in Godric’s Hollow. The dark streets, illuminated only by dim street lamps, and the late hour ensured he was not seen by the local Muggles. With a heavy sigh, James Potter steeled himself before entering. Almost at once he was met with the unflinching glare of his wife, Lily. Her green eyes burned into brown ones with such a force that they reminded him unsettlingly of a certain vivid green Unforgivable Curse.

 “Good evening, Lily,” greeted James. Apparently it was the wrong idea to speak first; or breathe too loudly, for that matter.

 “ ‘Good evening, Lily,’ “ his wife mocked. “Is that all you have to say for yourself!?”

 “Now, Lily, I handled it,” James defended himself. “I got a friend of mine in the Oblivators to wipe the boy’s memory; everything will be fine. Harry can go back to school tomorrow, if he wants.”

 “Going to school,” repeated Lily dubiously. “Is that what you think this is about? A Muggle bully! ” As she took in her husband’s blank stare she only seemed to get madder. “By Merlin, James! You’re rarely home and when you are you barely speak to your son. I called my husband; not an Auror!”

 “You know why I have been so busy with work!” James defended. “Peter- eh, um… _Pettigrew_ was spotted in France last week. I’m in charge of catching him, you remember! If it wasn’t for him you’d-” he stopped himself right there. The Potters never, ever mentioned Lily’s inability to have any more children. Harry did not even know he would never be having any sibling and no one planned to ever tell him. It was a sore spot for the whole family and James knew it was a bad idea to bring it up, but…

 It was too late now, in any case. “So revenge is more important than your family!” hissed Lily, her eyes frosting into a cold glare. “I would think you would be more concerned with the one you have now, then the one you might have lost!” She seemed to realize that was a low blow because she changed the subject then. In a quieter voice this time, she said, “James, I called you to help your son, not run off to work more! Harry hasn’t left his room since he got home and he says he wants to talk to you.”

 That, more than anything, confused James. He and Harry were not exactly… _close_. While James accepted that was his fault, he did still love his son with all his being. But between James’ long hours at the Auror Offices and Harry being an essential Lily-clone, they had little in common. Harry did not even like Quidditch! Could you believe that? Judging from the skeptical look on Lily’s face, she thought this was all strange too. But if his son wanted to see him, James would go. Casting a nervous glance first at Lily and then towards the second floor where Harry’s room was, James made his move. Climbing the stairs, James made his way towards his son’s room – the very same room where Bellatrix Lestrange ensured he would remain an only child.

 Reaching the door and knocking hesitantly, James said, “Harry, open up! Your mother says you wanted to talk to me.”

 Almost instantly the door cracked open. James caught the gaze of a single emerald colored eye before the door flew open wide, James was pulled inside by a small hand before the door was shut and locked behind him. Watching his son turn the lock on the door with a concerned gaze, James asked, “Is that really necessary?” Harry had never been one to shut himself away in his room.

 His task complete and the door locked, Harry looked at him for a moment before walking over towards his single bed and sitting down. “I don’t want mum to hear,” Harry explained, frightening his father more than anything else. James had always been secretly jealous of how close Lily was with their son. Now Harry did not want his mother to hear them? The young boy was silent for a few minutes following that admission. When he finally spoke again, his voice was reserved. “I’m sorry, dad,” said Harry. “I know you must be busy with work and all; too busy to come here and clean up my mess, anyway.”

 “Now I don’t want to ever hear you say that again, Harry!” James found himself scolding his son. He could never remember doing that before; being the tough parent was always Lily’s job. “You are my son. If you’re ever in trouble, I’d drop everything and come help you. I don’t care if You-Know-Who comes back and the Auror Office is on fire, my son comes first.”

 Harry’s face seemed to lighten at that, but when he still said nothing James cast his eyes about the room. It was far from the mess of James’ own childhood room that looked as though it had been attacked by a rampaging Hippogriff – honestly, if it had not been for the old Potter family house-elf, James’ room never would have been cleaned. Harry’s room, on the other hand, looked as though it was regularly dusted and James knew Lily never came up here. The walls were bare; nothing at all like the Quidditch posters James would hang in his. The bed was neatly made except for the crinkle caused from Harry’s quiet form. A small book case rested in the corner by the door; the books on it ranged from “ _Hogwarts, A History_ ”, “ _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ ”, “ _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ ” and “ _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_.”

 There was also a desk beside the bed. On it was a wet quill that rested on a few scrapes of parchment that were haphazardly thrown about – James could see words like “Muggles,” “magic,” and “hunting” scrawled on them. Beside the writings was an open copy of “ _A Guide to Medieval Sorcery_.” The chapter “Muggles Folly: The Witch Hunts” glared up at him and James was beginning to think this accidental magic might not have just been a sign of a growing wizard.

 Crossing the room in a few quick strides, James pulled out the chair from the desk before setting in down in front of Harry, who still sat mute on the bed. Taking a seat across from his son, James watched Harry’s fingers clench and unclench – a nervous gesture. Deciding it was best for Harry to begin, James sat quietly.

 After a few awkward minutes of staring, Harry finally said, “Father-- Dad….” he trailed off there.

 James gave a weak smile at his son’s hesitance before saying, “I think I know what this is about, Harry.” When emerald eyes focused on him in surprise, James added, “I’m not a dumb as I look. I know I’ve been busy a lot lately, but you know I care about you.”

 Harry looked close to tears at his father admission. “Is--is Polkiss okay?”

 Assuming “Polkiss” was the Muggle boy’s name, James answered, “He’s fine. His hair has grown back and by tomorrow he won’t remember a thing. You didn’t do anything wrong, Harry.”

 “I know that,” stressed Harry, surprising his father. “I just wanted to know he wasn’t hurt… _too bad_.”

 Feeling very nervous now, James cast a concerned look first at his son and then at the parchment on the desk. “Is there something you wanted to tell me, Harry?”

 Harry was quiet again for a few minutes, but when he finally spoke it was little more than a whisper. “Are… Muggles evil?”

 James blinked. One time. Two times. Harry seemed terrified of the silence and started shifting where he sat. Finally, a shocked James exclaimed, “No! Where did you get an idea like that?”

 Harry cast a pointed look at the desk before turning back to his father. “Books,” he said vaguely. “And life.”

 “Well books can be misleading,” started James. “But life… Well life is more complicated. Why did you ask me that, Harry?” James’ voice was soft, but Harry flinched as though he had shouted.

 “It’s, well… Um…” Harry eyes were glued to his feet now. “That school. The Muggles there; they hate me. It’s because I’m a wizard, I know it.”

 “Now I don’t think they hate you,” Putting up his hand to forestall Harry’s imminent denial, James added, “And even if they did, it’s not because you’re a wizard. Most Muggles don’t even know about magic.”

 “Dudley does!” Harry was quick to remind him. “So does Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon called me a… a _freak_! Said I was unnatural. That my kind was bad!”

 Not for the first time in his life, James Potter wanted to curse Vernon Dursley, and not with words. James knew exactly what Harry was referring to. Shortly after Harry first started attending St. Grogory’s School, Vernon had confronted James about “one of them” going to school with his “precious Dudley.” The insufferable man had insulted his culture, had insulted him, his wife and, worst of all, his son. If Lily had not stopped him, James would be sitting in Azkaban right now for murdering a Muggle, he knew.

 “I wouldn’t listen to anything your Uncle Vernon tells you,” James advised soundly. “Muggles may not be evil, but there are some bad people; Muggle and magical.”

 “Like You-Know-Who?” asked Harry.

 James actually laughed in response to that. “I wouldn’t ever compare your Uncle Vernon to Him, but yes; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was a bad wizard.” He smiled weakly before everything went quiet. Suddenly, James remembered something. “Harry,” he began. “Why didn’t you ask your mother about this? She could have told you all this, but she said you wanted to see me.”

 Harry looked very guilty at that. “Because… well, _you know_. She is, well… Eh… She wasn’t raised, well, magical… I didn’t think she’d…”

 “Understand,” James finished for him. Harry gave a stiff nod and James just stared. “You know what muggle-borns are, right, Harry?”

 Clearly surprised, Harry said, “Well, yes. A little. A muggle-born is someone who has no magical parents.”

 “Exactly. Now, tell me, do you think muggle-borns are evil?” asked James.

 “What! No! Mum’s a muggle-born and she would never hurt me!” The shock and indignation in the young boy’s voice made James smile. Still so young.

 “But she was raised by a Muggle family,” James pointed out. “She only ever found out she was magic when she was a little older than you.”

 “B-but that’s different!” stressed Harry as a jumped down from the bed. “Muggle-borns have magic! It’s not the same as Muggles! They hate us because of what we are: magical!”

 “They’re just scared,” James pointed out patiently with a sad expression on his face. “Muggles were afraid of what we could do. They reacted the only way they knew how; with violence. Wizards aren’t much different, really.”

 Clearly upset now, Harry yelled, “So because they’re scared it was okay! They might not have actually killed any witches, but they tried! Who says they won’t try again someday!? They might find out about us one day and--“

 “That’s why we hide,” interrupted James as he rested his hands on his son’s trembling shoulders. “We hide so we will never have to find out.”

 “So we just hide!?” Harry was frantic. “Hide from the Muggles because they hate us and would try to kill us!”

 “Smarter wizards and witches then me have argued about this for years,” said James sadly. “You-Know-Who got followers because he told a lot of people he would solve the ‘Muggle question’ for them.”

  _That_ Harry did not know. Whenever anyone talked about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters, they always said he was attacking people; Muggles and magicals. This was the first Harry had ever heard about _why_ they did those things. Was You-Know-Who trying to get rid of the Muggles? If so, Harry hated himself for how much he agreed with him there.

 Misinterpreting his son’s silence as horror, James continued softly, “We hide, Harry, because we must. This world is pretty big. There’s plenty of room for both of the magical and non-magical peoples. You’ll understand that when you’re older.”

 Choosing this moment to end their talk, James stood up and gave his son a gentle pat on the head and a warm smile before moving towards the door. Just as he turned the lock and was about to leave, a question reached him, “Dad,” asked Harry. “Do I have to go back there? With the Muggles, I mean.”

 James looked back towards his son who stood perfectly still, his small body framed in the moon-light that shined through the window, his emerald eyes glazed over like a lost child. Quickly turning away with wide eyes, James stiffly said, “I have to talk to your mother first, but I don’t see why not. Not after your magic has started reacting like this.”

 With those words, James left the room. When the door closed behind him with a soft _click!_ James let out a breathe he did not remember taking and sighed. Moving down the stairs towards where his wife silently stood waiting, James tried shaking off the feeling he got when he saw his son.

 The feeling he felt and the sudden since of foreboding he had when he saw the look in his son’s eyes. Most of all, though, he tried to forgot how much his son – framed in moon-light with black and wild eyes – looked like Bellatrix Lestrange the night she attacked Lily and guaranteed she would never have another child.

  **TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Harry who was still abused at school, but was given a clear “us versus them” reason for why. One of canon Harry’s biggest issues was how he did not feel like he belonged in the Muggle world. This story gives us a Harry that knows why and it is important to get that point across. Not sure how well I did -- make sure to let me know!


	3. Letters, Goblins, Robes, & Wands

“Is it here yet!?”

For what must have been the hundredth time that morning, Lily Potter sighed. She fixed her overly energetic son with a patient look despite herself and answered, “No, Harry, not yet.” Honestly, though! Harry had been conscious as an eleven year old for all of one hour and he was not even able to stand still. Turning back to her task, Lily eyed the simmering cauldron she had set up in her kitchen with a critical eye. When it at last emitted a light-silvery colored vapor she smiled.

Bouncing on the heels of his feet as he watched his mother brew potions, the newly aged eleven year old Harry James Potter pouted. “But I turned eleven last night,” he complained. “You’d think they’d have sent my letter by now! It’s almost eight o’clock!” He was, of course, referring to his Hogwarts acceptance letter.

“Harry, have patience. It’ll come any time now.” Judging from her son’s crestfallen expression “any time now” was not nearly soon enough for him. Lily smiled at her son; she still remembered sitting with Severus as she awaited her own letter with about as much patience. That is to say: none at all.

“Wh-what if I didn’t get in?” Harry screeched suddenly with a horrified look. “M-maybe I’m not magical enough! I’m not a Squib, right!? You’d tell me if I was, wouldn’t you, mum?”

“That I am not worried about in the least,” Lily answered truthfully. “I still remember my little baby boy who would break all my kitchen plates summoning them to him when I made treats.” Shaking her head at the memory of destroyed ceramic plates, she bent down and began pulling out small glass phials from the a nearby cabinet and lined them up neatly next to the cooling cauldron. Harry watched all this with the curiosity of a young boy; his Hogwarts letter momentarily forgotten.

“What are you making?” asked Harry curiously.

“A potion,” answered Lily with a blank look at her son. Seeing Harry’s mild glare, she pouted, “Oh, you’re no fun. I’m making a batch of the Draught of Peace. Around this time every year, over excited children“- She cast a pointed look at her still bouncing son. -“Tend to be a little anxious and it drives their parents and guardians up the wall, and not always just figuratively. The apothecaries cannot keep up with the demand so I’m lending a hand. Or cauldron, as the case would have it.”

There was no mistaking the pleased tone in the only female Potter’s voice. When Harry was very young, Lily had been a full-time mother. After Bellatrix’s attack she had wished to spend as much time with her son as possible; James, on the other hand, wanted to hunt down those responsible, namely Peter Pettigrew – who was still on the loose. As Harry got older, though, he needed his mother less and less. Mostly to overcome boredom, Lily had taken up potion brewing as a hobby before eventually taking up work as a privately contracted brewer. It was a few extra Galleons here and there and it gave her something to do.

 “The Draught of Peace,” repeated Harry as his eyes traced the rim of her steaming cauldron. “That helps calm people down, right? It’s a… fifth year Hogwarts potion, I think.”

 “How did you know that?” Lily asked expecting to hear--

“ _Hogwarts, A History_ ,” Harry replied; no surprise on his source. “It mentions some of the basic syllabus for each year. It also-” Interrupting what was easily going to be a lecture on all things taught at Hogwarts was the sound of a swift knock on the door. Immediately turning towards the direction of the door, Harry hopefully said, “Maybe they’re having someone hand deliver the acceptance letter!?” Before Lily could say anything in response, Harry had dashed out of the room.

Reaching the door as fast as his legs could take him, Harry threw open the door. “It’s about ti— _Uh-oh_ …” Harry’s words died in his throat as he was seized with fear. The source of his fear was the man on the Potter’s door-step. Wearing his usual flowing black robes, a man with cold and black eyes, that stood out against his very pale complexion, and whose face was framed by greasy black hair stood before the young Potter. As their eyes met, cold black on vivid emerald green, Harry gulped. Pushing up his square framed glasses that had nearly slid off his noise, Harry stammered, “I-I’m so sorry, Professor Snape! I thought you were… well, somebody else.”

Professor Severus Snape surveyed the trembling boy before him with a cool gaze. After what felt like a millennium’s worth of waiting to Harry, Professor Snape said, “Mister Potter,” his tone was flat and even. “I see you are as… _excitable_ as ever.”

“Well, uh…” Shifting on his feet, Harry mumbled, “Well, sir, you know what today is. I haven’t received my Hogwarts letter yet so I thought, maybe…”

Before Snape could say anything in reply, the sound of footfalls echoed into the room as Lily Potter called out, “Harry, who was at the -“ Stopping at the sight of the black-clothed man, Lily smiled and greeted the newcomer, “Ah, Severus! I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon.”

Harry knew Professor Snape and his mum were close friends; he did not understand _why_ , since they were very different people, but he knew that they were. Snape’s black eyes drifted from Harry’s emerald ones to the matching pair of his mother’s. “I had business to take care of,” he began in gentle tones. “Since I was in the area I thought I might… come by early.”

“Well, come on in. You don’t want the Muggles to see you.” Harry’s mother quickly ushered her childhood friend inside the house and towards the kitchen, all the while thanking Merlin that James was still at work and would not be back until later. Harry, who was aware of Professor Snape and his father’s animosity for each other, silently suspected that was the real reason Snape had chosen to come earlier in the day instead of the afternoon, when James was more likely to be home.

The red-haired mother showed Snape the large cauldron that sat in the center of the Potter family’s kitchen and the assortment of phials already lined up on the counter-tops. Some of the phials, Harry noticed, were already filled with the light-silver colored potion. “I just finished this batch moments before you arrived,” Lily was explaining. “Give me a moment and I’ll be finished filling them up. There’s tea over there-“ She gestured to the pot on the Muggle-style stove in the corner.-“If you want some.”

“That won’t be necessary, Lily,” said Professor Snape. For some reason, Snape never referred to her as “Mrs Potter,” it was always either “Lily” or sometimes when he was annoyed, “Miss Evans.” Harry believed it had something to do with Snape’s loathing of James Potter. Whatever the reason, Snape nodded before moving towards the sitting area by the front door and Harry, not wanting to be forced into helping his mother bottle potions, was quick to follow. The Potter’s sitting area consisted of a couch and a love seat with two armchairs beside the fire-place. Professor Snape looked around the room with evaluating eyes before taking a seat in one the chairs near the fire-place. Harry - amused with Snape for choosing James Potter’s favorite seat, but knowing better than to mention that fact - took a seat on the couch. The two sat in stifling silence for several minutes before it was finally broken; by Snape, oddly enough.

“Mr. Potter,” said Snape quietly. Harry turned towards the Hogwarts professor as he continued, “You will soon be attending my classes, as I am sure you are aware.”

Harry was perfectly aware of that fact. Severus Snape taught potions at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where Harry intended to go once his letter finally - _finally_ \- arrived. His mother had warned him about Snape, too; so had his father. His mum, who actually liked Snape, said he was strict, but that he was also the best potion master she had ever known. His dad, who did not like the man, said he was a “greasy git” and should not be trusted. Considering both his parents were biased in their own ways, Harry preferred to form his own opinions on Severus Snape. He had only ever met the man a few times beside today, but so far he fit closer to his mother’s description.

“Since you will be in my class,” Snape was saying. “I expect you to do well. As Lily’s son, I will expect nothing less than an ‘ _Outstanding_ ’ from you. However,” here his tone turned quietly acidic. “Should you prove to be more your father’s son, you will find I can be… _unpleasant_.”

That, Harry felt, was likely an understatement. Feeling very nervous now, he said, “Don’t worry, sir. I have been studying a lot and I think I should do alright.”

Snape’s eyes traced his face, as if searching for signs of deceit, before finally saying, “I hope, for your own sake, you are not wrong.”

Before Professor Snape could terrify the Potter boy anymore, Harry was saved by the timely entrance of his mother. Lily entered the room, followed by a floating crate filled with what Harry assumed was the Draught of Peace potions she had prepared. “This should hold Hogwarts over through the first month or two of classes,” she announced.

“I may only hope,” Snape replied, rising from the arm-chair. “Albus has been keeping me busy with… _other matters_ , of late. Otherwise I would have handled it myself. Thank you, Lily.” Harry was shocked to see the flicker of a smile came across the normally stoic man’s lips.

“Don’t worry, it was no trouble. I enjoyed it, actually,” laughed Lily with a slight blush; clearly she had noticed the smile, too.

Pulling out his wand, Snape cast a spell Harry could not hear at the floating crate; instantly, it drifted over towards Snape and bobbed up-and-down beside him. “I would like to stay and chat,” said Snape smoothly. “But there are still a few things I need to take care of. Farewell, Lily.”

After Harry’s mother replied in kind, Snape moved towards the door. It seemed to swing open of its own accord and, just as Snape was about to move through the door, he stopped. “I almost forgot,” he said quietly. The crate of potions floating behind him, Snape tucked a hand into his robes before pulling out a small envelope.

Lily gasped, recognizing the style of envelope. Harry, who sat looking over the back of the couch towards the potions master, did not. Apparently he should because Snape tossed it at him. Instead of flying through the air, as Harry expected, it gently drifted towards him on a silent gust of wind and gently landed in his outstretched hands. It took less than a second for Harry to recognize the Hogwarts seal stamped in bright red wax.

Casting a shocked look at the stoic professor before turning his eyes on his mother, Harry gaped. “Open it, Harry,” his mum urged. Requiring no more encouragement, Harry ripped open the letter with savage ease and quickly unfurled the first of two pieces of parchment within. It read as thus;

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand. Sorc.,

Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

 

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

_Minerva McGonagall_

Deputy Headmistress

Harry’s hands were shaking. He traced every word, every turn, and every trace of the quill that had written the letter with wonder and fascination, as if it were the greatest thing he had ever seen. Lily smiled down at him with love and pride and more emotions then he could ever name. Turning towards Severus Snape, who still stood in the door eyeing the young Potter with interest, she mouthed “thank you.” Snape nodded his head in reply before saying, “Minerva was going to send it by owl. However, since I was coming anyway, I offered to bring it along.” Harry looked up from the letter clenched in his hand; he knew Snape had only done this to torture him by making him wait, the smirk on his face proved it, but Harry could not bring himself to care. He beamed at the hooked nosed, sallow faced potions professor with a smile.

“I do hope you will be prepared, Mr. Potter,” remarked Professor Snape. “You will have no leeway with me because of your parents. I will see you the first of September.” With a final nod towards Lily, Snape left the Potter’s home without another word; the crate following him out soundlessly.

Closing the door behind her old friend, Lily turned towards her son. Harry, having turned his attention back towards his Hogwarts letter, was busy going over his second letter. “I already have most of the books,” he was mumbling. “We should have a set of scales somewhere around here; don’t know if they’re brass, though. Telescope I need. Might need a new cauldron, too. Then there’s my Hogwarts robes; don’t have that. Can’t forget the wand, either.”

Bouncing in place, Harry looked up at his mother’s exasperated face and said, “So? When are we going to Diagon Alley?”

“When your father gets home,” sighed Lily disparagingly, but Harry’s devastated cry of, “But that’ll be hours!” was more than enough to brighten her mood as his mother began laughing at him.

* * *

It was nearly two hours later when James Potter finally appeared on the hearth of the Potter’s home at Godric’s Hollow. Two more hours than Harry was comfortable waiting. By the time the oldest Potter male arrived home he found a frantic Harry gathering everything he would take to Hogwarts that the Potters already had. A stack of books was stacked on the table in the sitting area. Next to it was a brass scale and a pewter cauldron. Knowing immediately Harry’s Hogwarts acceptance letter must have arrived, James was quick to change out of his soot covered Auror robes and into his more casual wizarding clothes. As soon as James was dressed, the Potters made their way to Diagon Alley, via the Floo network in their fire-place.

 When the Potter family arrived inside the Leaky Cauldron – the way-point between Muggle London and the wizard’s Diagon Alley – Harry nearly knocked over a table when he shot out. Apologizing repeatedly to the elderly couple at said table, Lily helped her son to his feet. “Whatever ease you may have with Apparating,” she told him sweetly. “Clearly does not transfer over to Flooing.”

Harry grumbled quietly to himself as his father said hello to “Tom, the Barman” before leading the family-trio to a blank wall near a trash bin. “Three up…two across,” James mumbled as he tapped the wall three times with his wand. The wall seemed to quiver before a small hole appeared in the center. It grew larger and larger until, in the wall’s place, rested a wide archway that led out onto a cobbled stoned street that twisted and turned far out of sight. A wide smile blossomed across Harry’s young face. It had been so long since he had last been to Diagon Alley and, after living for so long near Muggles, it was always nice to see more of his own kind. As the Potters crossed the archway – which closed up behind them – and began making their ways down the street, Harry took in the sights.

It was just a lively as Harry remembered it being, especially being this late in the afternoon. The sun shone brightly down on the bright red cobble stones. James Potter led them towards the large white building at the end of the street that Harry knew was Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

The trio passed several shops – an apothecary with a discount sale on Porcupine Quills and Dried Billywig stingers, Eeylops Owl Emporium, Potage's Cauldron Shop, Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, it went on and on – before finally arriving at the steps leading up to the large bank. The bright white building towered over the rest of Diagon Alley and Harry, not for the first time, was slightly intimidated as the three made their way up the stairs. At the top, near the bronze door entrance, was a goblin. It had a swarthy, clever looking face with a pointed beard and bowed lightly as they entered; its long fingers resting over its chest.

 Now they faced a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

  _Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

As he had since the first time he had read it, Harry felt a shiver run up his spine. ‘ _You’d have to be mad to try and robe from them,_ ’ thought Harry as two more goblins bowed them through the doors. They were in a large marble hall. What seemed like hundreds of goblins sat on large stools behind a long counter, writing in huge ledger books, measuring piles of Galleons, and eying gems through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count around the edge of the room, a constant flow of traffic to-and-fro.

The Potters made for the counter. “James Potter here,” Harry’s dad announced. “I’m here to make a withdrawal.”

“You have your key, sir?” asked a particularly stubby goblin. James handed over his key promptly. The goblin eyed it for a moment before saying, “This seems in order. I’ll call someone to take you down, Mr. Potter. _Gornuk!_ ”

Another goblin walked up and guided them towards one of the many doors around the hall. Holding open the door for them, Gornuk ushered them inside into a narrow stone passageway lit only by flaming torches that dipped downward and led towards a small railway track. Gornuk whistled and a cart came up on the track. After the Potters and their goblin escort were all loaded up, the cart rushed off. Apparently guiding itself, since Gornuk just sat there, the cart followed a trail of twisting passes. Remembering the last time he was here, Harry did not even bother trying to remember the way, knowing he never would be able to, and decided to follow the goblin’s lead and wait patiently.

When the cart finally stopped, the four climbed out and stood in front of a metal door. Gornuk quickly unlocked the door, revealing several high stacks of gold, silver, and bronze. The amount was sizeable, Harry knew, but was only “well to do” when compared to some of the wealthy pureblood families like the Malfoys and Blacks. At least they were not like the Weasleys, Harry decided. James and Lily Potter both entered and filled up their magically enlarged bags. Harry contented himself with waiting beside the goblin as his parents moved around inside. Less than a minute later, however, Harry heard a screeching metal sound coming from the tracks behind them.

The goblin also seemed to have heard it and was clearly angry because of it. Seconds later another cart stopped on the tracks just behind the one the Potters had used. Inside were two people; one was clearly a goblin, but while the other was a young-looking bald wizard with pale skin wearing flowing purple robes. The wizard exited the cart instantly and took a quick, agitated look around. Gornuk the goblin rushed towards the man. “What is the meaning of this!” he shouted. “Bogrod! You’re a bank teller! What are you doing bringing someone down here?” His question was aimed at the motionless goblin still seated in the cart. When Bogrod failed to respond, Gornuk stared grinding his teeth, obviously close to shouting.

Before Gornuk could begin yelling again, Bogrod stiffly climbed out of the cart. He looked like any of the other goblins Harry had ever seen, but he was clearly older and there was something about his eyes. Most goblins had narrowed, dark colored eyes like Gornuk did. Bogrod’s, however, looked perfectly normal; calm, even, and seemed sort of clouded. “Special business,” Bogrod said airily without the bite Harry had come to expect from goblins. Maybe he was just more relaxed? “I suggest you keep to yourself or I’ll report you to your superior.” Everything was said in perfectly airy tones, but they seemed to quiet Gornuk because he nodded stiffly in reply.

Before anything else could be said, James and Lily Potter exited the vault and closed it behind them. They both took in the newcomers and the tense confrontation before them before James moved forward and asked, “What seems to be the trouble?”

“N-nothing,” the purple robed wizard said with a stutter. “S-simply a mis-misunderstanding!”

James was clearly confused, but his wife sent him a look not to get involved. Taking heed of her advice, James extended his hand. “James Potter,” he introduced. “This is my wife, Lily, and son, Harry.” He gestured to each in turn.

The bald wizard said nothing for a few seconds as he eyed the proffered hand. “Q-Quirinus Quirrell!” he said in what Harry believed was his natural stutter-ridden voice. Harry noticed he did not shake hands. Instead, grasped in his hand was an iron key with the numbers “7-1-3” etched on it. No one else seemed to notice the key, but Quirrell must have caught Harry eying his hand because he quickly stowed it away into his robes. When he removed it seconds later it was opened palm; key free. Harry decided Quirrell was a very strange man, but thought no more of it.

“Alright,” grunted Gornuk. “Enough gawking! If you’ve got to go further down,” he addressed Quirrell and Bogrod here. “Take our cart. We’re finished so we’ll take the other one.” That seemed to work for everyone because the two new arrivals climbed into their cart and, after Quirrell’s stammered farewell, were gone. Gornuk complained the Potter’s entire way to the surface, muttering things like “disrespect” and “pay back.”

In the end, when the Potters finally exited the bank, it was to the relief of all. When they were back on the street – far away from the bank – James Potter said, “Goblins are not my favorite race.” Harry could not help but agree with him, even as his mum began scolding her husband for discriminating.

* * *

 Their pouches filled with clinking Galleons and Sickles, the Potter group began their shopping spree in earnest. Deciding it was best to get their clothing shopping done first, the trio made their way towards _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions_. It was a moderately sized building that gave the impression that while not high-class, it was far from being low either. The proprietor, Madam Malkin, was a squat witch dressed entirely in mauve. As soon as the Potters had entered she lifted her head from where she was examining a piece of cloth and smiled. “Another one for Hogwarts?” she asked.

“Yes,” answered Lily as she pushed her son forward. “This one right here.”

Madam Malkin led Harry into the back of the shop. A stool sat in the middle of the room. Malkin gestured for him to stand there as she said, “Climb up and I’ll take your measurements. Later on today you can just pick up your robes before you leave the Alley.”

As Harry stood on the stool Madam Malkin pulled out a strip of measuring tape from… _somewhere_ and got to work. Fifteen minutes later she was about finished when another person entered the room, saying, “Madam Malkin,” The man’s voice sounded familiar. “I’m done sorting the acromantula silks. What do you want me to do with--?” When he caught sight of the family in the room, though, he cursed, “Oh bugger…”

Sirius Black stared at the three Potters with a look of surprise and horror. James gaped at his best friend and Lily was not fairing much better. Harry, being the child he was, asked in between his laughter, “What are you wearing!?”

Sirius looked down at his peach colored robes and sighed. “Hello, everyone… James, Lily, Harry; how are you today?” That was as far as he got before his best friend began laughing, too. “Hey, it’s not funny!”

“Sirius,” began Lily, clearly holding back her own mirth. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, we all need work, right? Madam Malkin,” Sirius sent his employer a charming smile, which she returned in kind. “Was in a tight spot a bit back and needed a hand. She said my dark clothes had to go, though; hence the outfit.”

“As they should,” Malkin muttered with certainty as she measured the length of Harry’s feet. “Dreadful clothes; all those dark colors. Not suited for children. I like your new ones much better. Picked them out myself, you know.” Malkin whispered the last part for only Harry to hear.

Sirius smiled again, but it was clearly strained. “To tell you the truth,” he was saying to James. “I first tried getting a modeling job at Witch Weekly, but they turned me down. Said I wasn’t ‘ _suitable_ ’ enough and they were the fourth people who have said that to me. I think it’s all because that git Cygnus owns a good chunk of the place.” Cygnus, or rather _Cygnus Black the Third_ , was the current head of the House of Black, a radical pureblood family. Since Sirius had been disowned as a teenager the two never spoke, but Sirius would always insist it was “Cygnus’ fault” whenever he was fired or somebody would not hire him.

“I did offer to help get you into the Auror Department, but you refused,” James reminded him. His tone taking on a more teasing nature to it, he added, “Though now that I see your ambition was to be a dress maker I have to rethink a few things. Maybe you should have been in Slytherin after all, Black!”

Judging from Sirius’ horrified face and narrowed eyes, he did not agree. “Laugh it up,” and James did. When his best friend finally stopped, Sirius said, “Besides, about being an Auror, I’ll tell you the same thing I told you then: I’m done fighting dark wizards.”

“As you should be,” Madam Malkin commented while she rolled up her measuring tape, apparently finished. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is long gone and there are hardly any of his followers out and about these days. I think everyone should be done fighting by now.”

Harry, who had climbed down from the stool to stand beside his parents, stared at the squat woman for a moment before turning to his parents. Sirius and his mum seemed to be nodding in agreement, but James Potter’s face was glacial. If Harry knew anything about his father, he knew the man was thinking about Peter Pettigrew right now.

“There are still some,” James reminded, confirming Harry’s suspicions. “Pettigrew is still out and about.”

“Speaking of out and about,” Sirius said. “Guess who I saw earlier today? A Malfoy, that’s who! Lucius and my cousin, Narcissa. Their little spawn, too, were here. Little brat was spot on for his father, even at eleven. He’ll be Slytherin, no doubt.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” commented James as Lily spoke with Madam Malkin. “Lucius Malfoy was always corrupting, even at Hogwarts.” Turning to Harry, he added, “You make sure you beat Malfoy’s son in every test! You've got Lily’s brains so it should be easy. Show that slimy Slytherin no one messes with a Gryffindor.”

Harry nodded awkwardly in reply, but was saved from making a verbal one when his mother walked up to the three. “Madam Malkin says it should be a few hours. We should go and finish up shopping, not to mention Harry still needs his wand.”

James and Harry, particularly, agreed and after saying good-bye to Sirius, the Potter family made their way out of the shop. A short stop at _Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment_ to get a set of glass phials, a stop in _Scribbulus Writing Instruments_ for some new quills and parchment, another at the local apothecary for some potions supplies – for Harry and his mother both – and afterwards Harry had to be dragged out of _Flourish and Blotts_. When Lily realized they had left with three more books than their Hogwarts list had required – books that were not even on the list! - she began teasingly saying, “Maybe he won’t be a Gryffindor, James. I might actually have a Ravenclaw for a son.”

“As long as it’s not Slytherin I think I can handle it,” joked James as the three Potters entered _Eeylops Owl Emporium_. After noticing Harry looked confused, James said, “Since you’re going to Hogwarts now I think it’s about time you got your own owl.”

“That way you will have no excuse to not write your lonely mother,” Lily Potter pouted.

“I’ll write every week,” Harry promised before he began his search. Twenty minutes later the Potters left, James carrying a bird’s cage where a snowy white owl sat perched with a wing covering her eyes to shield her from the sun.

“How about ‘Hephaestus’ for the owl’s name?” Harry was saying during the Potter’s walk towards their final destination, _Ollivander’s Wands_. He was walking beside the bird’s cage looking in with excited eyes. “That’s a good name!”

“The owl is a girl, Harry,” Lily reminded her son.

“Oh, right. What about ‘Lucia’? ‘Domina’ – that’s Latin for ‘Lady’!?” The owl, even in its current state, seemed to convey her displeasure with a look. “No? What about ‘Trish’ or ‘Annabelle’? No, well, what about…?”

Five minutes and twenty failed name suggestions later and the Potters were standing outside of a narrow and shabby three story building that seemed to be more of a home than a shop. A sign in peeling letters over the entrance read _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._

A tinkling bell rang out somewhere deep inside the shop as they entered, but Harry was too busy taking in the sights to really notice. What seemed to be a thousand rectangular shaped boxes were stacked up as high as the ceiling all around the shop. As the Potters walked further in they found an old woman Harry did not know sitting in a spindly chair. The eleven-year-old boy thought the woman looked rather odd with a stuffed vulture on her hat and a bright red hand-bag resting in her lap. The woman was tall, especially so for her age, and she seemed thin and bony, but her face reeked of a strange vitality. She was stern, Harry could tell; maybe overly so.

While Harry may have not recognized the old woman, James Potter seemed to because he took a step forward and seemed to bow his head a little. “Mrs Longbottom,” he greeted the old woman. “It’s good to see you outside of your home for once.”

Longbottom; as in the “Boy-Who-Lived” Longbottom? Harry had – like all other magical children in his generation – heard stories of the Boy-Who-Lived as a child. Neville Longbottom, after having defeated You-Know-Who while he was a baby, retreated into seclusion. His primary guardian and paternal grand-mother, Mrs Augusta Longbottom, was a member of the Wizengamot and was occasionally seen, but the Boy-Who-Lived hardly ever made an appearance.

“I take it young Neville is here to get his wand?” asked Lily with a friendly smile; she had been a dear friend to Alice Longbottom, even sharing notes and study papers at school, and knew Frank Longbottom nearly as well through the Order.

“Unfortunately,” Mrs Longbottom’s voice was crabby and seemed to be cracking from strain, showing the elderly woman’s age. “I wanted the boy to use my dear Franklin’s wand, but Dumbledore insists he should have his own. There is only so much an old woman can take before she gives in. I don’t know how he does it.”

Harry would like to have known why Albus Dumbledore took such an interest in the Boy-Who-Lived’s life, but knew better than to ask. Contenting himself with a curious glance around the shop, Harry was the first to notice the new figures arrival. One was clearly Ollivander; he was an old man – though not as old as Mrs Longbottom – with wide and pale colored eyes that seemed to shine in the gloomy shop lighting. The other was a boy; the Boy-Who-Lived to be exact.

All and all, Harry was unimpressed. While he had never really bought into the whole “knight-in-shining-armor” Boy-Who-Lived nonsense, he had been expecting something a little more. Neville Longbottom was a round faced little boy with slightly bucked teeth, a short, chubby build, and blonde hair. His eyes were brown and – Harry could not stop himself – there was a lightning bolt shaped scar right above his nose on his forehead.

“It is curious you should be chosen by that wand,” Ollivander was saying in quiet, vacant tones.

“H-how come, sir?” The Boy-Who-Lived was clearly unsettled by the wand-maker because his hand, which was clutching a wand, was trembling.

“That wand has an unusual combination; holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches long, nice and supple.” Ollivander seemed to be staring down at the boy and it only caused him to shake more. “The phoenix who gave its feather for your wand gave only two, both of which I have used and now passed on to a wizard. It is strange you should be chosen by this wand because its brother was in the wand that gave you that scar.” A wrinkled, bent finger pointed straight at the lightning bolt on Neville Longbottom’s forehead.

“You mean V-vold--“ The Boy-Who-Lived seemed to be in petrified shock.

“I think that is enough, Garrick!” shouted Mrs Longbottom, her voice shrill as she rushed over to the two. Ollivander did not seem the least bit sheepish. Augusta Longbottom seized the still gaping Boy-Who-Lived by his forearm and marched him out of the store and back out into Diagon Alley.

The Potters all stood in silence as the door slammed shut behind the two Longbottoms. When silence returned, Garrick Ollivander turned his attention onto his new costumers; particularly Harry. “Good evening,” he said softly before turning his attention to the older Potters. “Ah, yes, I remember you two. Eleven inches; mahogany; pliable; excellent for transfiguration.” He nodded towards James. “Now Mrs Potter, however, yours was ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. A nice wand for charm work.”

“Correct,” both James and Lily Potter said in unison.

Mr. Ollivander nodded mildly before shifting his attention back onto the younger Potter before him. Harry was determined to meet the man’s eyes evenly; even if the Boy-Who-Lived could not, he, Harry, would. Mr. Ollivander was mumbling something to himself, “Which wand to try for you, Mr. Potter? Which hand is your wand-arm?”

“My right, sir,” answered Harry with a smile. In the Muggle world they asked for your “writing hand” but to a wizard there was little more important than their wand. Harry learned to appreciate both those facts during his time in Muggle school until the age of eight.

Mr. Ollivander then began measuring Harry in a similar fashion to Madam Malkin, though he was including some stranger places. As emerald eyes followed the tape measuring the gap between his eyes he could not help but feel a little self-conscious. His task complete, Mr. Ollivander then began handing Harry wands. As far as the eleven-year-old could tell there was no pattern, but he was not really a wand-marker so he had no idea. “Nine inches, Beech-wood with dragon heartstring” did nothing at all. After three more wands like that, Mr. Ollivander began snatching wands after Harry held them for only a second.

When “eight-and-a-half-inches, Ebony and unicorn” succeeded only in destroying part of the shop’s floor Ollivander actually seemed to be smiling. “Another tricky costumer; how fortunate.  Mr. Longbottom was much the same. We’ll find the perfect match for you, Mr. Potter, don’t worry.” The whole shop was a rush after that. “Black walnut and unicorn hair,” “Alder and aspen,” nine inches, fourteen inches, on and on it went. After nearly an hour and with the sun beginning to set Harry was beginning to become frantic. His parents were forced to whisper calming phrases to him as Ollivander set off to get yet another wand.

When Mr. Ollivander returned he was holding a rectangular wand case like all the others. It was made of stone with a few minor carvings in it that made rather plain oval shaped marks. After the case was opened, Ollivander presented him with a wand. It was charcoal black colored with three bulges along the handle that made ball shaped designs. The tip, however, was arched like a bent finger that was pointing. As soon as his hand grasped the wand Harry felt a surge of something; power, purpose, belonging, acceptance, and so much more. Harry knew, before Ollivander even said as such, that this was his wand. “Blackthorn and Ash with dragon heartstring; ten inches; temperamental, but quiet powerful. Now go on, give it a flick.” Mr. Ollivander motioned his hands in an urging way.

Harry, not knowing what to do, focused on the hole he had blown in the floor earlier. Feeling regret after having ruined the floor, Harry flicked his wand sharply. The floor boards, which had spread around the room, flew into the hole. They did not all mend, but some did. A few, however, burst into flames. His parents seemed amazed by the display, but Harry felt even worse. “Sorry about that,” he apologized remorsefully.

“Not to worry, not to worry,” Mr. Ollivander said and, with a swish of his own wand, the floor was repaired like brand new. “I must say, Mr. Potter, I rarely see such an elaborate display in my shop.”

 “I’ll say,” James Potter had a grin spreading nearly from ear-to-ear. “When I first got my wand, I only had a few sparks.”

 “Same here,” said Lily with proud look towards her son. “A bit of water shot out and glowed for a bit, but that was it.”

 Harry radiated under their praise. His smile was there the entire time the Potter parents paid for the wand – twelve Galleons – and made their way out the door. Before Harry could follow them, however, a thought struck him. With a guilty glance down at his new wand still held in his hand, Harry turned towards the wand-maker. “Mr. Ollivander,” he began. “You said Neville Longbottom’s wand was related to You-Know-Who’s. Is mine… special, like that?”

 “All wands are special,” was Garrick Ollivander’s immediate reply. “Not all wands are suited for everybody. What makes one person special may not appeal to another.” Harry nodded his head solemnly at that, ashamed with himself for doubting his new wand, and was about to leave when Ollivander spoke again:

 “You should know, Mr. Potter, what your wand is most suited for.” Harry’s attention was riveted on the wand-maker as he continued, “Ash wands favor those who are committed to their beliefs; their wielder is often stubborn, but courageous; rarely arrogant or crass. Blackthorn, however,” here his voice drifted a little, as though whimsical. “Is best suited for warriors. Blackthorn wands have prodigious power, but, sadly, many are often tempted by its power. Your wand, Mr. Potter, will work wanders with charms, but is truly best suited for darker magics.”

 Harry choked a little. He held his slightly curved wand flat in his palms and followed the detailed curves and groves with utter fascination. Mr. Ollivander said all wands were special and Harry believed him. He said this wand was meant for him and Harry believed that, too. “But not always?” asked Harry. Ollivander nodded serenely, so Harry continued, “Then there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t need the wand of You-Know-Who, or Salazar Slytherin or-- or anything like that. They – and their wands – had their time. Me and this wand here,” he held up the Blackthorn and Ash wand. “Will have ours; whatever that may be.”

 Harry James Potter left _Ollivander’s Wand Shop_ after that declaration. Garrick Ollivander watched the Potter family walk away with curious eyes. “I rarely say this, Mr. Potter,” he spoke quietly. “But I expect great things from you. Possibly terrible things, but undoubtedly great.”

 Later that very night Harry Potter slept soundly in his bed. His new Hogwarts robes were already packed; his books and other things for school were set aside. Even his snowy owl – whom he had decided to call “Hedwig” – was rested in her cage after having returned from a small hunt. His new wand rested curled in his fingers gently. Harry Potter slept better that night than any he could think of before.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit with the wand is probably my favorite section in this, with second being the changes to Sirius Black's life. Anyway, next chapter we are finally off to Hogwarts! Make sure to comment and tell me how I did!


	4. The Hogwarts House Sorting

The morning of September the first could not have come any slower in Harry’s opinion. He had spent the month of August drinking in his Hogwarts school books – paying extra attention to his potions book; Snape still scared him a little – and practicing with his new wand. Despite Mr. Ollivander’s warning about his wand being more suited for “darker magics,” Harry did not have any trouble with regular charms either. He mastered the Wand-Lighting Charm – _Lumos_ \- on his first try and found out it actually was possible for a cat to get a runny nose when he began practicing the Curse of the Boogies - _Mucus ad Nauseam_ – on strays that had wondered into the house. After a failed attempt to cast a successful Severing Charm – _Diffindo_ – that cut out a bit of his bedroom table he stopped and practiced the Mending Charm – _Reparo_ – instead.

 

When the first of September finally did come, Harry James Potter beat the sun to rise that morning. After getting all of his things packed – something he had actually finished the day before in his excitement – he was left waiting. When the Potter parents greeted the morning themselves hours later they found their son curled up on his bed, already wearing his Hogwarts robes and reading Arsenius Jigger’s book, _Magical Drafts and Potions_. His mother, Lily, complimented him; his father, James, disparagingly said he really did have a Ravenclaw for a son.

 

The Potter family decided to use the Floo Network to make their way to King’s Cross Station’s Platform 9¾. Although James claimed it was tradition to always go through the magical barrier concealed between the Muggle train-stations Platform Nine and Platform Ten, when his wife pointed out they would have to carry all of Harry’s Hogwarts things – Hedwig’s bird-cage and two heavy trunks – through Muggle London without any Feather-weight Charms he quickly changed his tune, though. The three Potters appeared right on the platform itself in a burst of flames, and they were not the only ones. Almost as soon as they had stepped away another burst erupted, signaling another family’s arrival. Harry – who had shot out of the Floo as always – took no notice of their arrival and stared around in wonder.

 

The scarlet steam engine resting on the tracks was the Hogwarts Express, Harry knew. A sign hanging overhead confirmed that, declaring: _Hogwarts Express, eleven o’clock; Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_. Dozens upon dozens of families – wizarding families, Harry was elated to see – were crowded around the area.

 

“Oh, Hannah, I’m going to miss you!” Gushed a tearful old woman to a blonde-haired, brown eyed girl around Harry’s age.

 

“Whatever you do, Oliver, you have to win the Quidditch cup for Gryffindor this year!” urged a burly man wearing a Puddlemere United jersey. His son – who looked to be a third or fourth year – nodded his head like the words were being spoken by Merlin himself.

 

“It certainly is something, isn’t it?” Muttered a voice to Harry’s right. James Potter landed a hand on his son’s shoulder before adding, “Take it in, Harry! Trust me; you’ll remember this moment for the rest of your life.”

 

“Thank you for helping with the bags, husband- _dear_ ,” said Lily sarcastically. Harry’s trunks hovered behind her soundlessly and Hedwig’s cage was grasped in her hand. The snowy owl gave a hoot in agreement with the only other female there. James had the sense to at least look mildly abashed.

 

When eleven o’clock neared children began bidding their parents farewell and climbed on board the train. Harry – who was just itching to do the same – stayed back; or rather, was held back. Lily Potter had knelt beside her son and did her best to fix his hair. “The curse of being a Potter,” she was complaining. “Is messy hair! Oh, I give up!”

 

James watched his wife with a wide smile before turning to his son. “Make sure to write often, for your mother’s sake.” When Lily glared at him, he added, “Okay, for both our sakes. I will be expecting your first letter tomorrow morning telling me how you got the Sorting Hat to put you in Gryffindor.”

 

Before Harry could ask what the “sorting hat” was, his mum exploded, “James Potter you will not be putting pressure on your son! I don’t care if he’s a Gryffindor, a Ravenclaw or a-a-“

 

“Slytherin?” offered Harry nervously.

 

“No way!” was his father’s immediate response. “Ravenclaw, or even Hufflepuff, is acceptable if you can’t get into Gryffindor house, but Slytherin is out of the question!”

 

“James Potter!” screeched Lily. What followed was a glaring match between the two. When James surrendered – and he always did – Harry’s mum turned towards him and said, “If you’re meant to be sorted into Slytherin I don’t want you to fight it. You’re my son, Harry; I’ll love you no matter what you are. Slytherin is just a school house; same as Gryffindor.”

 

James clearly wanted to refute any claims that Gryffindor and Slytherin had anything in common, but seemed to think better of it. “Be careful, Harry,” he said instead. “Hogwarts can be a dangerous place sometimes, but it’ll be the best years of your life. Also, if any of those slimy Slytherins start picking fights, you make sure to hex them. I’ve seen your Boogies Curse, that’ll be a good start.”

 

The red-haired mother glared at her husband, but did not deny any of it. “We love you, Harry,” Lily told her son. “Be safe and make sure you’re at the top of all your classes.” James cast a new Feather-weight Charm on his son’s bags while Harry released Hedwig from her cage – she could hunt on her own way to Hogwarts while Harry was on the train. Two very light trunks and an empty owl’s cage in hand, Harry waved good-bye to his parents and climbed on board the train. If his mum cried at all Harry respectfully did not notice.

 

Within the cramped and moving confines of a train, Harry discovered, even a Feather-weight Charm did little to help maneuver two full-sized cases through a crowded train. When he was almost knocked down twice by over-excited second-year students, Harry was in such a rush to get out of their way he bumped into an older boy behind him. “Watch it!” shrieked the senior. He looked to be at least a fifth year and, when Harry caught sight of the purple colored “P” badge he was wearing, showing that he was the fifth year prefect, his age was confirmed. He had bright red hair, oddly enough, and narrow blue eyes.

 

“Sorry,” said Harry truthfully. “It’s just so crowded here, and my bags!” Harry waved weakly at his trunks that had fallen to the floor.

 

The boy seemed close to snapping at him again before seemingly catching sight of his own badge. At once, his chest puffed out with importance. “I see; you were trying to get my attention.” Before Harry could correct the older boy, he went on, “I’m Prefect Percy Weasley, of Gryffindor House. If you need help, it's my obligation as your elder to assist.” Without another word, Percy Weasley took hold of Harry’s bags and led him on a search for a free compartment.

 

After nearly ten minutes, however, they had not found a free one. The older boy did take him to a compartment with some free space, which was just as good. Harry thanked him and, with a pleased nod to himself, the prefect was off. Inside the compartment were three students – first years like him, by the looks – who were already seated. One boy sat across from two girls. As soon as Harry entered, the boy got to his feet. “Let me help you there,” the boy offered. With the boy’s help, Harry’s two trunks and Hedwig’s empty cage were tucked away in the overhead compartments.

 

“Thanks for that,” said Harry.

 

“No problem. Name’s Anthony Goldstein,” he extended his hand, which Harry accepted kindly. The boy was fair skinned with blonde hair and pale-brown eyes. His clothes were wizard-robes, meaning that Goldstein was probably from a pureblood family, or at least a halfblood.

 

“Harry Potter,” he introduced himself as he took a seat across from the girls, next to Goldstein.

 

“Any relation to the Auror captain, James Potter?” asked one of the girls; she had black hair and blues eyes. Harry thought she looked rather tom-boyish despite her long hair. “Fay Dunbar, by the way.”

 

“Nice to meet you, too,” said Harry, proving himself his mother’s son. “James Potter is my dad. How’d you know?”

 

“My dad used to be an Auror,” Dunbar explained. “Dad’s retired now, but he keeps in touch with things in the D.M.L.E. so he’s mentioned a Captain Potter a few times.”

 

Harry nodded at that before turning towards the last occupant. Maybe it was because she was sitting by the window and catching the sunlight, but she had the lightest brown hair Harry had ever seen and equally brown eyes. She also looked rather thin, like she did not eat much, and was wearing her Hogwarts robes already. “What’s your name? I’m Harry, obviously.”

 

“Turpin,” she answered in clipped tones. “Lisa Turpin.” When it became clear she was not going to say anymore, Harry turned his attention back on the other two in the compartment. Dunbar launched into an enthusiastic tale about the latest Quidditch game she had seen, but when no one else seemed interested she pouted and switched to Gobstones.

 

“I’m not much of a player,” Goldstein told the girl. “I prefer Wizard’s Chess, myself.”

 

When Dunbar turned to him, Harry hid his face behind the book he had pulled from his trunk - _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ , by Professor Quentin Trimble - and muttered, “Same here.”

 

“And you call yourselves boys!” Dunbar exclaimed, but said nothing more as she stared out past Turpin into the shifting scenery as the train rolled on.

 

It was not long before Anthony Goldstein turned in Harry’s direction and said, “You had any luck actually casting any of those spells?”

 

“Some,” answered Harry as he pulled out his wand. Holding out his slightly crooked black wand, Harry chanted, “ _Lumos!_ ” A bright white-blue light filled the compartment, blinding everyone within. When Harry canceled the spell he was met with glares from both Turpin and Dunbar. “I know a few more, but they’re mostly curses and hexes. I have the Mending Charm down, but there’s nothing broken to show you.”

 

Apparently something he had said surprised the boy because Goldstein was looking at him oddly. “That’s amazing,” he said, his eyes wide. “I’ve only managed that Lumos so far.” Goldstein looked impressed, so did Dunbar. Turpin was glaring at him, but seemed impressed despite herself. At half past twelve – eighty minutes into the train ride - Harry and Goldstein were still talking about spells they had already tried, with Harry giving bits of advice at times, while Turpin and Dunbar did their best pretending they were alone. It was this arrangement that that the door to their compartment slid open on.

 

A dimpled woman stuck her head in and said, “Anything off the trolley, dears?” She gestured to a small trolley that was covered in about every kind of wizarding sweet imaginable. Dunbar got a box of Bertie Bott's _Every Flavour Beans_ , Goldstein got a _Cauldron Cake_ , and even Turpin got something: _Liquorice Wands_. Harry was busy tearing open a Chocolate Frog box when the trolley woman finally moved on. As soon as it was free, the frog made of chocolate made a jump for the window; Harry, no stranger to this, quickly grabbed it and bit off the head causing it to stop moving instantly save for a few twitches of its hind legs.

 

“Get anything good?” asked Dunbar as she popped a light-blue colored Bertie Bott bean into her mouth before quickly spitting it out – “ _Eww!_ Sardine flavored _!_ ” she shrieked.

 

Trying not to laugh as the tom-boy tried to brush the taste from her tongue with the sleeves of her robes, Harry pulled out his Chocolate Frog Card and saw a fair skinned witch with black hair who was in shackles as she formed a fireball between her hands. Curious, Harry turned the card over and read aloud, “Carlotta Pinkstone (1922—present): Famous campaigner for lifting the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy and telling Muggles that wizards still exist. Ms. Pinkstone has been imprisoned several times for her blatant and deliberate use of magic in public places."

 

“Crazy girl, huh? Wantin’ the Muggles to know about wizards,” Anthony Goldstein commented from Harry’s side before swallowing whole his Cauldron Cake.

 

Harry found himself nodding in agreement, though mentally he added, ‘ _More like traitor. If the Muggles knew about us, they’d attack._ ’ Surprisingly, Lisa Turpin seemed to be nodding along with them; Fay Dunbar just looked confused.

 

“What’s wrong with the Muggles knowing?” asked Dunbar. “The wizarding world already has muggle-borns; my mum’s one even.”

 

Goldstein suddenly seemed very uncomfortable, but Harry was energized. “Because they’re Muggles,” he found himself saying, as though that explained everything; which it did, in his mind. When Dunbar appeared unconvinced, he added, “They couldn’t handle it! They don’t know our ways. They’re too different! I can only imagine what I’d do if a Muggle told me my wand was one fourth a meter in length! It’s just ten inches!” Harry could not keep the grimace off his face; he has never liked Muggles ever since his primary school days and having to deal with his cousin, Dudley Dursley. Neither Goldstein nor Dunbar seemed to have any idea what he was talking about, but Lisa Turpin, strangely, scowled right along with him. Noticing the other two’s confusion, Harry explained, “The Muggles don’t even measure in inches anymore. They use something called the ‘metric system.’ It’s bollocks, if you ask me.”

 

Dunbar’s mouth formed an “O” of surprise; either from Harry’s explanation or cursing, he did not know. Goldstein puffed up his chest and said, “You shouldn’t talk like that, Harry, but I think I get your point. It is weird the Muggles do that, but can we _please_ change the subject.” Wanting nothing more himself now, Harry quickly launched into an explanation on how to cast the Curse of the Boogie. Waving his wand in the air to illustrate his words, Harry was mid-wave when their compartment door slammed open; not gentle like with the cart lady, but an actual slam.

 

“Some people can be so rude!” Huffed an agitated voice from the door. Harry turned and saw a first year girl. She had bushy brown hair with matching colored eyes and her face was scrunched up slightly; combined with her large front teeth, it put Harry in the mind of a chipmunk or a beaver. “No one else would let me sit with them! Can you _believe_ that!?” All of which was said in a shrill voice that still retained a bossy edge, giving Harry a few good ideas why nobody wanted her with them. When the new girl noticed Harry and Goldstein looking at her with their wands out she seemed confused before realization dawned on her face and she said, “Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”

 

Withholding his urge to demonstrate his Curse of the Boogies on her, Harry cast a simple Lumos. Apparently Goldstein cast the same spell because the whole cabin was once again drowned in a bright light. When the spells were finally deactivated, Harry caught sight of the envious look on the new girl’s face. “Oh! You can already cast spells!” Her voice sounded disappointed, Harry thought. “What spell was that, anyway? I don’t think I saw a ‘ _Loo_ -mose’ spell in our text-book’s index.”

 

“It was probably under its true name; the ‘Wand-Lightning Charm’,” explained Harry before her words finally registered. “Wait! You’ve never heard of _Lumos_ before? Who are you; what’s your surname?”

 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t introduce myself, did I? I’m Hermione Granger!” Her cheeks pinked a little as she stuck out her hand.

 

Seemingly relieved after hearing her family’s name, Harry accepted her hand-shake and said, “Harry Potter. Granger, you say? What are you doing here in Britain? I figured the Grangers would send all their children somewhere closer to home; like Beauxbatons.” Harry had heard of the Granger wizard-family in mainland Europe; it’s most notable member, Hector Dagworth-Granger, had founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, of which Harry’s mother was an associate member.

 

“Beauxbatons?” Hermione Granger muttered in confusion. “I don’t know anything about that, but my parents live here in the U.K.,” Harry pulled his hand away from the girl like it was burned; the girl took no notice. “They’re dentists. Nobody in my family’s magic at all; it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter. I was ever so pleased, of course. I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard-“

 

The girl likely would have gone on more, but Harry interrupted her rather worriedly, “You’re a muggle-born?” At the girl’s confused look, he clarified, “Your parents are Muggles? Non-magical?”

 

“Oh, yes! I keep forgetting you all call non-magicals ‘ _Muggles_.’ They’re dentists, my parents,” said Granger.

 

Harry scooted back as far away from the girl as his seat would possibly allow. ‘ _“You all,” she says that like she’s not magical, too. Muggles!_ ‘ Harry thought with venom as he turned to see everyone else’s reaction. Goldstein and Dunbar did not seem the least bit concerned by the Granger girl’s admission and were introducing themselves happily, but Harry noticed Turpin was sitting very stiffly in her seat as she glared at the muggle-born girl.

 

When Granger began talking about practicing spells at home, Harry could not stop the snide remark that followed, “How long is your wand, anyway?”

 

Goldstein and Dunbar sent him a glare while Turpin smirked in the back, understanding his meaning. Granger, unaware, said, “Ten and three-quarters, but that’s just ¼ metric, right? They really should convert, you know. Metric is ever so much more efficient.”

 

“What Hogwarts house are you hoping to get in?” interrupted Anthony Goldstein as Harry broke out into snickers and Turpin’s face seemed torn between a smirk and a sneer. Goldstein glared at the emerald eyed boy before moving to sit between Granger and Harry, making said boy sit across from Turpin.

 

“Gryffindor,” Granger said at once, pushing past her confusion at Harry’s reaction. “It sounds the best by far, and I’ve read that’s where Dumbledore himself was. Though, I suppose, Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad.”

 

“I’m gonna be in Gryffindor,” Fay Dunbar said with confidence. “That’s where my dad was and everybody says I’m just like he was.”

 

“I’ll probably be in Ravenclaw,” Goldstein said before giving Harry a look.

 

Looking anywhere but at the muggle-born Granger, Harry said, “My mum says I’ll be in Ravenclaw, but my dad wants me in Gryffindor like they were.”

 

Nobody seemed to have the nerve to ask Turpin, but it seemed the muggle-born had no such reservations. “I didn’t get your name!” Granger said in her demanding voice. “I’m Hermione Granger! What house are you hoping for?”

 

Harry did not think the light-brown haired girl would answer, but was proved wrong. “Lisa Turpin,” her frosty voice could freeze a phoenix in molting. “And I’m hoping for Slytherin, like my older brother was.” The silence that greeted her answer was stifling. Goldstein seemed uncomfortable and Dunbar was moving away from the girl like Harry had from the muggle-born. Granger was blinking confusedly at the two, likely having no clue why that would bother anyone so much.

 

Harry leaned forward and held out his hand, though. “Harry Potter,” he gave the girl a slightly quirked smile. “We weren’t properly introduced before.”

 

Turpin eyed the hand suspiciously for a few seconds before accepting. “Lisa Turpin,” her voice was not nearly as cold to Harry as she had been to the muggle-born Granger.

 

Goldstein, Dunbar, and Granger conversed amongst themselves the rest of the trip to Hogwarts. Harry Potter and Lisa Turpin, however, sat in silence and looked out the window.

 

* * *

 

It was a good while before the Hogwarts Express finally began slowing down. Harry and Turpin – the two who had taken to staring out the window and ignoring the other’s existences – were the first ones to notice. Almost at once, a collection of voices echoed throughout the train as older students, likely the Prefects, called out: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes. Leave your luggage on the train; it will be taken to the school separately.”

 

Harry’s palms were sweating; whether from nerves or excitement, even he did not know. Turpin seemed a little red-faced, but Goldstein and Dunbar both looked awfully pale. Granger appeared nervous and was beginning to mutter something to herself. The group of five weaved their way out of the compartment and into the growing crowd of students gathering in the corridor. There was a sudden lurch as the train came to a stop. People were pushing their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry felt a chill as he stepped out into the cold night air. Hogwarts robes were not known for being very thick and Harry had yet to learn a warming charm. From the chilled looks on the other first years, neither had they.

 

Then Harry noticed a lamp was bobbing its way over the heads of the students. “ _Firs’ years!_ Firs’ years over here!” A giant of a man stood holding the lamp. His face was almost completely shrouded by a long and shaggy mane of hair, and a tangled mess of beards. Harry recognized the man as Rubeus Hagrid. Though Harry had never met him, his dad spoke highly of him.

 

“C’mon, follow me – anymore firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!” Hagrid called out in his deep voice. Slipping and stumbling along the way, the first year students followed the large man down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. The darkness on either side of them was so deep Harry was immensely grateful for having learned the Wand-Light Charm. Goldstein, a little ahead of Harry, was likewise relieved as they seemed to be among the few first years who could cast it.

 

“Yeh’ll get your firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called back at them. “Jus’ round this bend.”

 

The “ _ohh!_ ” and “ _ahh!_ ” sounds that followed were shared by everyone. The narrow path had opened onto the edge of a great black lake. Rested upon a high mountain across from it, with windows sparkling in the dark night, was a massive castle with numerous towers and turrets. Harry, like the rest, were so entranced by the beautiful sight that he almost missed Hargrid calling out, “No more’n four to a boat!” The large man was pointing towards a fleet of little boats resting at the lake’s shore-line. Harry and Turpin slipped onto a different boat after Goldstein, Granger, and Dunbar climbed into one. Harry saw a blonde haired, blue eyed girl with a stoic expression and a brown haired, hazel eyed girl with oval shaped glasses climb in following them.

 

“Everyone in?” shouted Hargrid, who sat in a boat by himself. “Right then – _FORWARD_!” The fleet of boats moved off all at once. The little lines moved across the black lake with ease, and a solemn silence veiled the journey as everyone stared transfixed at the glimmering castle ahead.

 

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the boasts reached the cliff. They all bent their heads as the boasts led them through a curtain of ivy that covered a wide opening in the cliff face. They followed a dark tunnel, seemingly under the castle, before coming to a rest at a kind of underground harbor.

 

The crowd of first years exited their vessels and followed Hagrid up a flight of stone steps before crowding around a huge, oak front door. Hagrid raised his massive fist and knocked three times on the door, which sung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch with emerald-green robes stood there. Her stern face remained Harry a great deal of the looks his mum would give Uncle Sirius when he did something stupid; which was often.

 

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.

 

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” She pulled the door wide and ushered them inside. The hall was huge with stone walls lit only by flaming torches. Harry could not even see the ceiling it was so high up, but watched interestedly as the marble stair-case before them seemed to move ever-so often.

 

McGonagall guided them across the hall and – passing a door where Harry could hear the rest of the school coming from – led them into a small, empty chamber off the side. They crowded in and stood rather more close together then Harry would have liked as they eyed McGonagall nervously.

 

“Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” said Professor McGonagall grandiosely. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your dormitory, and spend free time in your house common-room.

 

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.”

 

‘ _Why is she even bothering to tell us all this? Everyone’s parents have already told them all this already,._ ’ Harry could not help from asking himself. Unbidden, his emerald-eyes drifted over to the muggle-born Granger, who was watching Professor McGonagall with fascinated eyes. Several other students seemed interested in her words as well; more muggle-borns, no doubt. ‘ _Of course. That’s why._ ’

 

“The Sort Ceremony will take place in a few minutes,” McGonagall continued. “It will be in front of the rest of the school so I suggest you smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you wait.” Her beady eyes lingered on a bright red-haired boy with black smudge on his nose before leaving the chamber.

 

Harry was self-consciously trying to flatten his untamable hair when he heard a bright red haired child speak, “How do you think they sort us, Seamus?” he was nudging a scruffy looking boy to his left. “Some sort of test, I think. Fred, my brother, said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”

 

“It’s probably some test of magic,” said the bossy voice of the muggle-born Granger before she began reciting memorized spell incantations under her breathe.

 

Harry scoffed at both of them. Turpin, who was standing beside him, looked curiously before asking, “Do you know how they sort? My mother refused to tell me.”

 

“No idea,” he answered honestly. “But my parents let slip something about a hat. That’s all I know.”

 

Just as Harry was beginning to think McGonagall had forgotten about them, several people behind him screamed. “What the-?” Harry’s voice died in his throat when he caught sight of about twenty transparent ghosts that were streaming through the brick wall. A couple were gliding along, apparently in an argument of some sort; a little monk looking one was saying, “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance-“

 

“My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he’s not really even a ghost – I say, what are you all doing here?” A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly turned his attention onto the group of first years.

 

When no one answered, the monk exclaimed, “New students! About to be sorted, I suppose? Hope to see you in Hufflepuff. My old house, you know!”

 

“Move along now,” commanded a sharp voice. “The Sorting Ceremony is about to start.” Professor McGonagall was back. As the ghosts floated away, McGonagall was saying, “Now, form a line and follow me.”

 

With a slight tingle running up his legs, Harry got into line behind the red haired boy as Turpin followed him. The line of first years left the small chamber, moved across the hall, and entered the Great Hall through the large double-doors.

 

Remembering his parents, Uncle Sirius, and Uncle Remus’ stories of the Great Hall, Harry felt they did not do it justice. Lit by thousands and thousands more candles that were floating in midair were four long tables that took up the not so small room. The house tables, as Harry knew them, were already filled with students of varying ages, with the youngest sitting nearest to the door. The empty section at the very end must have been saved for them, as the first years. Where the house tables were stretched down the hall, another table was lined across the front on a raised platform where the teachers sat. The old man Harry recognized as Albus Dumbledore sat in a large, throne like chair in the center.

 

Professor McGonagall led them down the middle of the hall, in between two of the tables. The hundreds of faces watching them put Harry in the mind of lanterns silhouetted by the candle-lights above. Ghost stood out among the tables, their misty silver transparency being difficult to miss. Feeling very nervous and wishing to avoid the other students gaze, Harry titled his head up and found himself gaping.

 

He remembered reading about it before, but had not been expecting this. The ceiling of the hall had clearly been charmed to show the night sky outside, right down to the millions of sparkling stars and a beautiful moon. It was so wonderful and magical, the wonder nearly overwhelmed him, but he felt his awe ebb slightly when he heard the muggle-born Granger’s whispered voice further behind him, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History_.”

 

Even the muggle-born’s bossy voice could not dampen Harry’s mood tonight, but a slight scowl still formed on his face. Wanting nothing more than to ignore the girl, Harry turned his attention to Professor McGonagall as the old witch placed four-legged stool in front of their precession. On the stool she placed a pointed wizard’s hat that seemed to be made of leather with match-worked stitching all around it. Knowing this was the hat his parents had spoken of; Harry still could not understand what they were expected to do. ‘ _Put it on, maybe, but what could that possibly do?_ ’

 

Harry was so busy trying to figure out the mystery of the hat that he nearly jumped when he saw it twitch before a rip formed near the brim that opened up like a mouth as it began to _sing_ :

 

_“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,_

_But don’t judge on what you see,_

_I’ll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There’s nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can’t see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be.”_

 

Harry felt his shock lessen as the hat continued, singing about the houses and their various traits; daring, nerve, and chivalry for Gryffindor; being just, patient, and loyal for Hufflepuff; wise, witty, and a thirst to learn for Ravenclaw; and finally, cunning, ambition, and resourcefulness for Slytherin.

_“You’re in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I’m a Thinking Cap!”_

 

The entire hall roared with applause as the hat concluded its rhyme. It bowed to (rather, titled at) each of the four tables before going still again.

 

“All we have to do is put on a raggedy old hat!?” There was a clear sense of revulsion and disappointment in Lisa Turpin’s voice and Harry could not stop himself from agreeing.

 

“When I call your name,” Professor McGonagall said to the line of the first years. “You will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted.” A slight pause, then, “Abbott, Hannah!”

 

A clearly embarrassed girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of the line, put on the hat - which fell around her small head - and sat down. There was a pause before-

 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.

 

“Bones, Susan,” was called and, after she put on the hat, was sent to Hufflepuff. The sound in the hall was deafening with applause. Bones was actually hugged by an older student and everyone else had bright and creepy – in Harry’s opinion – smiles on their faces.

 

“Boot, Terry,” was the first addition to Ravenclaw, and was followed by “Brocklehurst, Mandy,” shortly thereafter. Ravenclaw burst in applause; some along their table stood and shook hands or patted the backs of their new additions.

 

“Bulstrode, Millicent,” then became a Slytherin. The table for the house of snakes did not burst in applause like the other two did. There was a polite, dignified clapping along the table while the large Bulstrode girl took a seat amidst nods of approval.

 

“Cornfoot, Stephen,” was called and a tall, blonde haired boy with brown eyes was added to the growing list of Ravenclaw students.

 

The girl with oval-shaped glasses from the boat - “Davis, Tracey,” – was sent to Slytherin after nearly a minute on the stool.   

 

When “Dunbar, Fay,” was called, the Quidditch loving girl got her wish when almost instantly the hat called out, “GRYFFINDOR!” The table’s applause was loud, but failed to surpass Hufflepuff’s. The students seemed nice, though, as they smiled and greeted Dunbar.

 

“Greengrass, Daphne,” was called shortly after and Harry recognized the blonde girl he shared a boat ride with walk up before being sorted into Slytherin. When she sat next to Tracey Davis, Harry assumed the two knew each other.

 

When “Granger, Hermione,” was called, the muggle-born almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat on eagerly. Her sorting was the longest so far, but when the hat finally spoke it declared Gryffindor. The bushy haired girl smiled before sitting next to Dunbar, who smiled back. Apparently they were friends now.

 

“Goldstein, Anthony,” was sorted into Ravenclaw, as he said he would be. The boy sent a sad smile towards Dunbar and Granger before taking his seat.

 

“Longbottom, Neville,” Professor McGonagall called out faintly. At once, the entire Great Hall descended into whispers. Harry recognized the slightly chubby boy with blonde hair that stepped out of the line. Longbottom, much as he had been in Ollivander’s Wand Shop, seemed twitchy.

 

The boy ambled up onto the stool amidst whispers from the other students. Unlike with the previous first years, which were sorted very quickly, Longbottom sat pensive under the hat for nearly five minutes. Around the time Harry was entertaining thoughts of the Boy-Who-Lived being sorted into Slytherin, the hat called out, “GRYFFINDOR!”

 

Longbottom did not seem relieved, but merely acceptant as he placed the hat on the stool and walked slowly towards the Gryffindor table amidst cheers of: “We got Longbottom! We got Longbottom!”

 

“Malfoy, Draco,” was called and Harry paid extra attention. James Potter and Lucius Malfoy often opposed one another at the Ministry of Magic and Harry’s dad had repeatedly told him that all Malfoys were bad. Draco Malfoy – with his slender frame, sleek white-blonde hair, gray eyes, pale complexion, and sharp, pointed features – did not seem bad, but certainly had the look of an unpleasant person. He was sorted into Slytherin after the hat barely even touched his head.

 

“Moon, Lily,” was sorted into Gryffindor, making Harry feel briefly homesick. “Nott, Theodore,” joined Slytherin. “Parkinson, Pansy,” was called next. A fair skinned girl with black hair and a pug nose was under the hat for barely ten seconds before joining Nott and Malfoy in Slytherin. Harry noticed she took a seat awfully close to the Malfoy boy.

 

After two calls for “Patil” spilt up a pair of twin Indian girls between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, “Perks, Sally-Anne” was sorted into Ravenclaw. Then came-

 

“Potter, Harry,” Maybe it was because of his nerves, by Harry thought he saw a brief smile appear on the stern professor’s lips. Dispelling the thought, Harry took a seat on the stool. He caught a look from Turpin before the hat fell over his eyes.

 

He waited, expecting a house to be called, and was surprised when he heard a voice whispering in his ear: the Sorting Hat’s. “ _Difficult. Very difficult. Good bit of courage, I see. Plenty of brains. There’s talent. Oh my goodness, there is certainly talent! But what’s this I see? A desire to prove yourself, show your skills; make the world look at you. Very difficult… Where should I put you?_ ”

 

Not certain if the hat was asking a real question, Harry wondered. His dad wanted him in Gryffindor; his mum said he was suited for Ravenclaw, but Harry knew she would secretly like to see him in her old house. “Gryffindor,” Harry found himself saying. “Gryffindor, please!”

 

“ _Is that what you really want?_ ” asked the hat. “ _To be a Gryffindor like your father? I think your mother was more on track, but even then… Have you considered Slytherin?_ ” Harry, truthfully, _had_. He considered it briefly, but knew it would devastate both his parents; even his mother, who claimed it would not matter to her. Still, Harry knew he had some Slytherin traits, but enough to be sorted there?

 

“ _You would do well there, I think,_ ” the hat was grumbling thoughtfully now. “ _Slytherin would quench your thirst for recognition; first Potter sorted there in generations, after all. They would also appreciate your bit of… prejudice easier than others._ ” When Harry began wondering what prejudices he had, the hat said, “ _Oh surely you’ve noticed? ‘Muggle-born Granger,’ you call her. You don’t think very highly of Muggles, do you?_ ”

 

Harry’s first reaction was a firm “No!” but he thought about it. The Muggles at his primary school were stupid - the teachers and students alike - but surly not all were like that. Then he thought about his reaction to the Granger girl. Harry did not like her, yes, but was that because she was annoying or because she was a muggle-born? He could accept that it was true, in a sense, that he did not give Muggles as a whole much credit, but who besides the muggle-borns did? The hat, it seemed, considered this prejudice as it said, “ _You enjoy misleading yourself, I see. No matter. Slytherin would do you well, but I sense a brighter future for you elsewhere. Better be—_ “

 

“RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat. The Ravenclaw table began applauding and Harry took a seat at the end by Goldstein. “You took so long. Longer than Longbottom, even,” he commented. Harry was so busy mulling over the Sorting Hat’s words that he missed the next part of the sorting. When “Turpin, Lisa,” was called up, he dismissed the hat’s words as misunderstandings.

 

Turpin eyed the hat coldly before she took a seat and McGonagall put the hat on her. Almost at once, Harry knew she was having trouble. Since she wanted Slytherin, Harry suspected the hat disagreed. He was proven right when it called out, “RAVENCLAW!” Turpin glared at the hat so strongly Harry was expecting fire, but eventually she took a seat beside him and ignored everyone who came to congratulate her.

 

After “Zabini, Blaise,” joined Slytherin house, Professor McGonagall rolled up the scroll she had been reading from and took the Sorting Hat away. Harry found himself glancing down at his barren plate and wondering if they would actually be eating anything tonight.

 

Thoughts of food were cast aside when Albus Dumbledore stood from his quasi-throne. He beamed at the students with his arms spread wide like seeing them was the greatest thing in his life. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!” he said. “Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words, and they are: -” Expecting something important, Harry leaned closer. “-Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you.”

 

He sat back as the older students clapped and cheered when food appeared on all the tables. Harry sat back looking thoroughly confused; he was not the only first year to be. A Ravenclaw second year leaned their way and said, “Yes, Dumbledore is insane. Hero or not, he’s batty.”

 

“Eddie Carmichael!” hissed an older student further down the table. “Stop insulting our headmaster.” After Carmichael seemed properly abashed, she turned to the first years and said, “Headmaster Dumbledore is a very bright man, he’s just… _eccentric_.”

 

“Which is just a nice word for crazy,” Eddie Carmichael was muttering to himself. To Harry, he added, “Don’t trust that prefect; Penelope Clearwater is her name and she’s trouble.”

 

Considering Clearwater was the prefect and Carmichael was only a second year, Harry suspected it was the other way around, but said nothing on it. Turning his focus onto the food before him, Harry decided unscrupulous prefects and insane headmasters could wait; it was time to eat.

 

When everyone had eaten their fill, the remains faded away, leaving behind sparkling clean plates. Moments later, desert appeared. Feeling stuffed, Harry turned his attention towards the teachers. Dumbledore was talking cheerfully with Professor McGonagall and a squat witch with short, wavy grey hair – Harry knew she was Professor Sprout from his mother’s stories.

 

Harry found Professor Severus Snape sitting near the far end of the table. The Potions Master sent Harry a cold look before nodding his head slightly and turning his attention to the man beside him. Snape was in deep conversation with a wizard around his own age wearing deep purple robes and a turban of matching color on his head.

 

Not remembering such a man from his parent’s stories, Harry leaned towards Eddie Carmichael and, pointing towards the turban, asked, “Who’s that man talking to Professor Snape?”

 

“Know Snape, do ya?” Carmichael mumbled around a cheese Danish before he followed the first year’s finger. “Oh, that’s the new teacher. Professor Quirrell. _Qwin-us_ Quirrell, or something like that. He’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. No wonder he looks so uncomfortable; everybody knows Snape wants that job.”

 

“Quirrell?” Harry muttered, remembering the bald wizard from Gringotts with a stutter. “I did not know he was a professor.” Quirrell caught Harry’s eyes. Turning quickly, Harry focused on the headmaster as he stood up.

 

“ _Ahem –_ “ Dumbledore cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention and the deserts disappeared. “Just a few words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First year should know that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils, and a few older students would do well to remember that as well.”

 

The elderly wizard reminded the school how no magic was permitted in the halls. He spoke at length about Quidditch tryouts, but, as a first year, it had little relevance to Harry. Listening to the old man speak, Harry suddenly realized how tired he was.

 

“And finally, I must tell you that this year the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” Dumbledore said all of this in a perfectly cheerful voice and Harry – who was now wide awake – was reminded of Eddie Carmichael’s words: Albus Dumbledore is crazy!

 

Harry, still watching the old man in horrified wonder, saw as the headmaster and most powerful wizard of the century led the school in a _sing along_! When two red heads from Gryffindor finished their version of “Hoggy Warty Hogwarts” to the tune of a funeral march, Dumbledore said, “Ah, music, a magic beyond all we do here. Now bedtime. Off you trot!”

 

Harry woodenly followed the crowd of Ravenclaws out of the Great Hall. The Clearwater girl from earlier and another older student led their way. The two led the crowd of Ravenclaws through the castle, up a few flights of stairs, down a few halls, and-- Harry honestly lost track of their movements by the time they were off the steps. Contenting himself with following the older students, Harry looked back at Turpin. She seemed annoyed, but was mostly okay. “At least someone I know was sorted with me,” Goldstein said as he fell into step beside Harry. “Guess your mum was right about you, Potter! Too bad for you though, Turpin.”

 

Lisa Turpin’s glare was blistering hot, but she said nothing. The prefects led the group up a tightly wound spiral staircase until they were finally stopped by a door. There was no knob or keyhole of any sort. A bronze, eagle shaped bird head stuck out of the middle with an equally bronze loop hanging from under it.

 

“This is the entrance to our common room,” explained Clearwater. “We do not have a password or a secret entrance like other houses. We have this knocker.” She grasped the knocker and rapped it twice.

 

The bronze eagle’s beak split open and, in a rather soft voice, said, “ _I never was, am always to be. No one ever saw me, nor ever will; and yet I am the confidence of all, to live and breathe on this terrestrial ball. What am I?_ ” Harry blinked. His dad had mentioned memorizing annoying passwords, not answering riddles.

 

Clearwater seemed to smile at the door, finding amusement somehow, before turning back to them. “The knocker will ask a riddle or question. Simply answer the question and you gain entrance. The question changes every time the door is opened.”

 

“What happens if we can’t think of the answer?” asked a nervous looking Terry Boot.

 

“ ‘ _Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,_ ’ ” Clearwater seemed to be quoting someone, but Harry did not know who; probably some long dead Ravenclaw student.

 

The male prefect was more to the point, however: “Then you can’t get in and will have to wait for someone to come by and save you. Now, who wants to try?” No one stepped forward. The boy smiled then before his eyes fell on Harry. “Potter! Your sorting took the longest! The hat considered putting you in Gryffindor like your dad, I suspect. Step up and prove you belong with the ‘claws!”

 

Harry briefly considered mentioning the hat wanted him in Slytherin, but thought better of it. Stepping from the crowd, Harry focused on the bronze knocker and thought over its riddle. He had never really been much for riddles, but this one seemed simple enough and when the answer finally came he understood why Clearwater smiled. “Tomorrow,” said Harry confidentially. “Or the future, depending on how you look at it.”

 

“ _Well thought,_ ” the knocker complimented before the door swung open.

 

“Guess the hat is not losing it after all,” the male prefect drawled out before stepping inside; the first years following after.

 

The Ravenclaw common-room was shaped in a perfect circle with gracefully arched windows where blue and bronze silks hung. The view outside was of the mountains. The ceiling reminded Harry of the Great Hall with its twinkling stars that shone down around the room. Tables, chairs, and bookcases were spread out around the room and in a niche opposite the door was a white marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw herself that rested beside a door that lead, presumably, to the dormitories.

 

As the crowd of first years looked around the room, the prefects took up spots near the statue. “Congratulations! I’m Prefect Robert Hilliard, and I’m delighted to welcome you to Ravenclaw house.” Harry was of the impression this was a practiced speech, but listened anyway. “Without wishing to boast, this is the house where the cleverest witches and wizards live. Our founder, Rowena Ravenclaw, prized learning above all else – and so do we.” There was a certain demanding look there, but he said nothing more on it.

 

“You’ll like our head of house, Professor Flitwick – you’ll meet him later. People often underestimate him, because he’s really tiny (we think he’s part elf, but we’ve never been rude enough to ask) and he’s got a squeaky voice, but he’s the best and most knowledgeable Charms master alive in the world today. His office door is always open to any Ravenclaw with a problem, and if you’re in a real state he’ll get out these delicious little cupcakes he keeps in a tin in his desk drawer and make them do a little dance for you. In fact, it’s worth pretending you’re in a real state just to see them jive.”

 

Prefect Hilliard actually took a breather before saying, “Now I think you’ve had enough listening to me yap. Time for some sleep; I’m sure you’ll have a good night. Once again: well done on becoming a member of the cleverest, quirkiest, and most interesting house at Hogwarts.”

 

“No more than three students to a room,” Clearwater said then. “Boys on the left, girls on the right.”

 

The first years went through the door next to the statue. A hall that veered off into two parts greeted them. Following Clearwater’s instructions, the boys took the left hall. Doors lined around a winding hall were their destination.

 

Harry entered the second door in the line and was followed by two others. Despite wanting to meet his dormitory mates, Harry was so exhausted he barely spared the other two a glance as he collapsed onto a bed with blue-bronze covers.

 

Harry James Potter fell asleep in his new Ravenclaw dormitory within seconds. 

 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to anyone hoping for a different house, but Ravenclaw is the only one that made sense for this Harry. That said, I hope you like your first taste of the house dynamics. We do not know much about it from canon, so it was actually pretty fun making it their own thing.
> 
> Although, my big regret of this chapter is the Harry/Hermione scene on the train. Even when I first wrote this, it still seemed off. Now it is a glaring hole to me. It gets across the feelings I wanted, but is so heavy handed with how I am just... "ergh" with it.
> 
> However, I am still interested in hearing your thoughts. What works? What does not? Feel free to comment or ask any questions you like.


	5. First Days At Hogwarts

Harry managed to find his way to the Great Hall early for his first morning after arriving at Hogwarts. Either from his nerves or a vague sense of home-sickness, Harry barely managed to get any sleep. His dormitory mates – the tags above their beds identified them as “Cornfoot, Stephen” and “Boot, Terry” – had been sleeping soundly and, after sending a quick letter to his mum via Hedwig, went for a morning walk; intent on exploring a little. He would soon regret that choice; after Harry had gotten trapped on the moving stair-case, he found himself getting lost in the maze of corridors and passage ways. Honestly, it was a miracle he found his way back to Ravenclaw Tower, but by then everyone had already left for the morning feast.

So it was that a weary Harry Potter took his seat at the end of Ravenclaw’s table much later than his new housemates. Thankfully breakfast was a very filling and traditional meal; eggs, sausages, biscuits, so on. Just as Harry had worked his way through his second serving, Prefect Hilliard came down to the first year’s side of the table and began passing out sheets of parchment. “Your class schedules,” he explained briefly before going back to his seat.

“Herbology first thing,” said a boy beside Harry that the emerald eyed boy recognized from the Sorting as Stephen Cornfoot. “I was hoping for Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Herbology ain’t so bad.”

“I was actually hoping for Charms myself,” commented Harry before turning towards the blonde haired, brown eyed boy. “Harry Potter,” he introduced himself, extending his hand. “We share a room.”

Shaking it gladly, the other boy said, “I saw the tag over your bed. Nice to meet you.” Cornfoot sent a glance at the timetable in his hands before continuing, “At least they gave us directions. I had loads of trouble just finding my way here.”

“I know what you mean,” agreed Harry with a laugh.

Harry and Cornfoot ended up making their way towards the greenhouses behind the castle together. Professor Sprout turned out to be a very nice woman – fitting, since she was also head of Hufflepuff house – and they spent the lesson listening to a brief over-view on how to take care of various different strange plants and what they were used for.

That same night they gathered on the tallest of all Hogwart’s towers to attend Astronomy; this was taught by Professor Sinistra. Aurora Sinistra was a dark skinned and equally dark eyed woman who wore olive colored robes. Harry thought star gazing and constellations were boring, but Cornfoot found it exciting.

They were forced to wait until later that night to finally attend Charms class, which they shared with Gryffindor house. Ravenclaw’s head of house, Professor Filius Flitwick, was the teacher and he was just as short as Robert Hilliard had said. Harry was reminded of the goblins at Gringotts as he watched the short professor climb onto a pile of books to see over his desk. When Flitwick started off by giving roll call, he nearly fell on his behind when he got to Longbottom. Harry had a low opinion of the short professor because of this, but was mollified when he saw the teacher moving things with his wand without any incantations.

The class Harry was most nervous about came around by the middle of their first week: Potions. Harry knew Professor Snape would quiz him so he was worriedly eating his breakfast that morning while reciting potions ingredients between mouthfuls.

“He can’t be that bad, can he?” Stephen tried hopefully. When Harry spared him a blank look the boy sagged in his seat. Oddly enough, the two had become friends quickly enough, but Harry doubted they were really suited to each other’s personality. Even though he did his work in class, Stephen Cornfoot seemed to enjoy slacking off at night while Harry was busy finishing up his class work well into the night. Stephen also seemed to enjoy Gobstones, while Harry preferred Wizard’s Chess. The blonde boy was funny, though, and Harry thought he appreciated the pureblood – it had come up in their short talks about their parents – because of that sense of levity.

Harry was torn from his thoughts when Hedwig appeared before him in a flutter. The beautiful snowy owl had been working nearly nonstop delivering Harry’s letters back home – mostly to his mother – and Lily Potter’s letters back to her son. Harry was thankful his parents had reacted well to his sorting; even his dad had seemed fine with it. However, despite Harry’s frequent correspondence back home, the new Ravenclaw was still surprised to find his personal owl here now since he was not expecting another letter untill the end of the week.

When Hedwig stuck out her leg and Harry saw the rolled up newspaper there, he assumed his parents had gotten him a subscription to the Daily Prophet, wizarding Britain’s primary news source. Harry took the paper from the beautiful post-owl, trading it for a few strips of bacon from his plate. Unrolling the paper, Harry glanced through it with curious eyes. He had always thought wizarding news was more interesting than its Muggle counterpart. On the second page of the Daily Prophet, Harry found a short article that caught his attention:

* * *

**GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST**

_Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault (713) that was searched had been emptied the same day._

_“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said a Gringotts spokes-goblin this afternoon._

* * *

 “I can’t believe someone actually broke into Gringotts on the 31st of July! I was there that day!” exclaimed Harry as he read the article.

“Really,” muttered Stephen around a biscuit. “Maybe you met who did it then. That’d be creepy, wouldn’t it?”

Thoughts of bank robberies and near-thief-meeting experiences were cast from Harry’s mind soon after when he and Stephen found themselves waiting in the dungeons, outside of Professor Snape’s classroom. Even though Harry had made sure he was twenty minutes early, other students were already waiting. Ravenclaw had potions with Hufflepuff so Harry noticed Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott were looking particularly stressed. Apparently, some of the older students in the house of the loyal had warned their new housemates.

Snape did not open the doors to class until five minutes ‘till. The black eyed, greasy haired professor looked just as he had in the Potter’s living room two months prior. The doors open, Snape turned and seemed to glide towards his desk; his billowing cloak trailing him like a cape. The students quickly rushed into the cold potions classroom, scrambling to claim the seats closet to the door – thus, furthest from Snape – but Harry did not even try as he claimed a seat near the middle for himself. Hesitantly, Stephan decided on the seat behind Harry.

When everyone was seated, Snape began taking roll call. Harry’s heart nearly burst from his chest when he noticed the slight pause on his name, but Snape made no other reaction.

His call done – and with everyone in attendance – Professor Snape began, “You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potions making,” His voice was soft as always, but he had a definite knack for keeping everyone’s attention without any real effort. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with it shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses.”

Harry was enchanted, despite the lack of an actual spell beyond those of his new professor’s words. Harry had listened to his mother’s many speeches on why she loved potions brewing so much, but she always focused on things like meditation or calling it a “hobby.” Professor Snape spoke as if brewing potions was the only way to become a truly powerful wizard and, for a moment, Harry believed him.

“I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory; even stopper death – _if_ you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.” Absolute silence followed the man’s rhetoric. Stephen Cornfoot seemed like he was beginning to understand why Harry was so nervous and everyone else had either a worried or awed look to them.

“ _Potter!_ ” yelled Snape suddenly as Harry braced himself for what he knew would follow. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Many in the class seemed dumb-struck. Stephen fixed the back of Harry’s head with a confused and horrified look. Harry, however, actually smiled and said, “Since they are the main ingredients in a sleeping potion, I would say the Draught of Living Death, sir!”

The class all sucked in a breath, awaiting Snape’s verdict. Professor Snape looked blankly into Harry’s emerald colored eyes framed by square rimmed glasses before saying, “Correct, Mr. Potter. Maybe you’ve learned a thing or two from your mother. Let’s try again; _just to make sure_.”

Snape’s cold eyes seemed to be drilling into Harry’s mind, as if searching for something to ask, before finally deciding. “When making a Cure for Boils,” Harry blinked in confusion. “You use leech juice before snake fangs; true or false?”

Harry blinked. He racked his mind, trying to remember what his potions book said about how to make the Boil Cure potion, but he could not think of when you used leech juice. Should he just guess or- It struck him. “False, sir, and a trick question,” said Harry confidently. “The only ingredients used for the Boil Cure potion are: dried nettles, porcupine quills, horned slugs, and, of course, snake fangs. You don’t use leech juice at all, sir.”

Professor Snape gave Harry such a cold look that the first year began to doubt his answer. Stephen spared his friend a sad look; like he was expecting Snape to kill him. Harry, knowing Snape’s loathing of all things James Potter, thought he might be right. “Correct,” whispered Snape so suddenly Harry actually jumped in his seat. There was a strange look in his eyes, though. “Maybe there’s some hope for you yet, Mr. Potter. Don’t disappoint… Well!? Why aren’t you all writing this down?!”

Harry knew that any other teacher would have given him house points for answering those questions. Harry also knew Severus Snape was a Slytherin though-and-through and would never betray his own house, which he was also the head of. When Terry Boot dropped his book on the floor later on, Snape took five points from Ravenclaw for disrupting class. Despite this - and coupled with the seemingly approving look the potions master sent his way - Harry thought he might not care.

* * *

Harry was in such high spirits after his first potions class that he was one of the few who stayed awake throughout History of Magic later that day. The teacher, a ghost named Professor Cuthbert Binns, had a droning voice that seemed to actually drain the will of his class to stay awake. Ignoring Stephen’s snoring behind him, Harry dutifully copied Binns’ lecture. Later on in the Ravenclaw common-room, almost every first year Ravenclaw asked to borrow his notes. Stephen went on his knees and actually begged.

The next day found Harry and Stephen side-by-side in Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall matched James Potter’s characterization to the letter – strict, but fair. Her stern face unnerved Harry in a similar fashion to Professor Snape and her thin lips were pursed.

As soon as everyone had found their seat, McGonagall said, “Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.” She then turned her desk into a pig and back again. The whole class was excited at the prospect of learning such a spell, but soon found out they would not be moving onto practical lessons anytime soon. After a series of complicated notes on Transfiguration’s basic principles, they were each given a match and told to turn it into a sowing needle.

By the end of the class, Stephen had managed to stab himself on a very sharp match stick, but McGonagall praised Harry’s work of a near perfect sliver threading needle. Harry beamed at the stern professor in pride until… “You and Ms. Granger from Gryffindor are the only ones who have managed this so far. Well done. Five points to Ravenclaw!”

For some reason, Harry’s work being compared to the muggle-born’s bothered him for the rest of the day. It was not until later that evening when Ravenclaw and Slytherin had their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class that Harry began to relax. Stephen, in contrast, was nearly vibrating with excitement from his seat next to Harry’s. For his part, the emerald eyed boy spared his new friend an exasperated sigh before turning his attention to the teacher’s desk. The class room smelled strongly of garlic and when Vincent Crabbe of Slytherin asked Quirrell why, the stuttering professor told the class it was meant to ward off a vampire he had met in Romania.

When Ravenclaw Michael Corner asked the professor about his turban, the teacher told a tale about fighting zombies for an African prince and said prince giving it to him as a gift. When Stephen had asked how this was done, Quirrell seemed to tremble in place before commenting about the weather. They spent the rest of the class reading from their text-books and answering random questions. Harry, who had finished the first couple chapters of the book before even boarding the Hogwarts Express, earned another five points for his house by preforming the Wand-Lightning Charm for the whole class.

When they were all finally dismissed to their common-rooms, Harry was busy packing up his things when Quirrell stuttered out, “S-stay behind, M-Mr. Potter-r!”

Stephen gave the professor a questioning look before nodding to Harry and waving good-bye as he left. Harry shuffled nervously on his feet, not certain what the professor wanted from him their first day of class. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

Quirinus Quirrell fixed him with an even look; much different from the stuttering fool Harry had just seen in class. Maybe the man was nervous around crowds? “Y-yes, Mr. Potter, you may.” Quirrell’s wand was fluttering through the air before Harry even realized the man had drawn it. An issue of the Daily Prophet news-paper flew across the room from where it had rested on the professor’s desk. When the paper magically unfurled, the Gringgots break-in was on the front.

Harry recognized the article from his paper the other day, but failed to understand why his teacher was showing him this. “D-disturbing business, the break-in,” Quirrell mumbled when he met the first year’s eyes. Harry could not understand what the professor wanted for the life of him and trying to think was giving him a headache; like there was something stinging him in the back of the head.

Almost at once, the even look on Quirrell’s face was gone. His face slackened and he was back to being pathetic Professor Quirrell. “I-it’s good you weren’t h-hurt, having been there and a-all!” Professor Quirrell said.

“Same to you, sir,” replied Harry slowly; obviously confused. Quirrell gave him a shaky nod and motioned a limp wrist towards the door as a clear dismissal. Harry, relieved, bid his leave and rushed out of the door, where Stephen stood waiting for him.

“Harry Potter,” said Quirinus Quirrell coldly when the boy was out of sight. “You might be useful.”

* * *

“McGonagall hates us!” wailed one Stephen Cornfoot as he looked over his Transfiguration homework with a frustrated groan. “It was an accident, I swear! It was my first try, for Merlin’s sake!” Harry and Stephen were currently seated at one of the Ravenclaw dormitories’ many tables. While the pureblood Cornfoot was going over his homework, Harry was slouched beside him over a copy of Arsenius Jigger’s _Magical Drafts and Potions_.

After Stephen had transfigured his match stick and somehow managed to stab himself in the head with it, Professor McGonagall had assigned the boy – and a few others – additional homework of writing a paper on the spell. Since Harry, along with the Gryffindor girl Hermione Granger, had been the only ones to get the spell right their first class, the emerald eyed Potter boy had no additional homework and more worrisome concerns.

Harry was glancing back-and-forth between his open text-book and a piece of parchment, his ink tipped quill working furiously across. “At least Professor Snape leaves you alone. Mostly, anyway,” said Harry as he continued writing the instructions for brewing the Forgetfulness Potion. Stephen found himself nodding in agreement with that. Even though Harry had managed to answer all those questions in their first Potions class, the surly professor had decided to be twice as strict on the young Potter. Harry had taken to reading ahead in his potions books in order to keep up.

“It’s a good thing you’re so far ahead in Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Stephen as he remembered how Harry had demonstrated a perfect Wand-Lightning Charm when Quirrell had begun teaching them the spell. “What did Professor Quirrell want the other day, anyway? When he asked you to stay behind in class?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answered truthfully. He put his quill down and began taping a contemplative finger against the parchment. “He only talked about the Gringotts break-in.” Weird questions aside, Harry had caught the twitchy professor giving him strange looks during class. Whenever he was caught, Quirrell would quickly look away and stutter more than he usually did. “Also, I’m not that far ahead; only two or three chapters in the book.”

“At least flying lessons will begin this Thursday! That alone makes all this work worth it.” Stephen, Harry knew, enjoyed flying. While the blonde preferred playing Gobstones to Quidditch, he always talked about flying back home. “I’m sure you’re looking forward to it, too! I heard some of the older years talking; they said your dad used to be a Quidditch seeker when he was in school. I bet you’re as good a flier as he was!”

“I wouldn’t really know,” said Harry bitterly drawing a confused look from the pureblood. “I’ve flown, of course, but not much. My uncle Sirius and my dad tried to get me into it when I was young, but after my mum complained I stopped really trying.”

His homework forgotten, Stephen gave Harry a horrified expression. “You haven’t been on a broom since you were little!?” The incredulity in his voice made Harry think he was talking about some unspeakable crime. To his mind, Stephan probably was.

“A few more times on occasions over the years, but mostly, yes.” When Stephen continued to gape at him, Harry snapped, “There are more important things than Quidditch! Like magic and your homework!” Harry sent a pointed look at Cornfoot’s unfinished paper and tried to ignore how much he sounded like his mother there; his dad would be ashamed.

Stephen and Harry fell into an uncomfortable silence after that and it was an agitated Harry that went to sleep that night. When the two awoke the next morning they both pretended nothing had happened, but Stephen seemed tenser than usual.

By the morning feast the following Thursday, Stephen was back to normal, but refrained from mentioning flying anywhere near Harry. This suited the Potter boy just fine since he had never really liked Quidditch anyway.

Breakfast would have been otherwise uneventful except for a slight fuss that arose after Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived, received a Rememberall in the Owl post. It was then Draco Malfoy had stormed over and began snatching at the orb from the boy’s hand.

Since Ravenclaw only had Charms and Astronomy regularly with the Gryffindors, Harry had very little interaction with the Boy-Who-Lived, but he had heard from his housemates that the boy was timid, easily disturbed, and was almost friendless. Harry had known the former, but doubted the later because Fay Dunbar quickly told off the blonde Slytherin while the muggle-born Granger was sending him disapproving looks from beside Longbottom.

‘ _It figures,_ ’ Harry found himself thinking when Longbottom, Granger, and Dunbar left the Great Hall under the glares of Malfoy and a few others from the Slytherin table. ‘ _The Boy-Who-Lived is friends with the know-it-all muggle-born girl._ ’ Whenever Harry did well in either Charms or Transfiguration, the professors would talk about him being “just like Ms. Granger” with his answers. After so many weeks, it had started to really annoy the young Potter child.

“He’s not like you’d expect him to be, is he? That Longbottom boy.” Stephen was looking at the double-doors with a contemplative expression. “You’d expect a Gryffindor Boy-Who-Lived to be more…”

“Brave,” finished Harry thinking back on his knowledge of the Boy-Who-Lived. “I know. I saw him when I got my wand; he looked like he was about to shake out of his skin.”

“Weird how some things happen like that,” said Stephen dismissively before launching into a story about a Gobstones match he had had the other day with a Hufflepuff second year.

Harry listened dutifully as a friend was expected, but could not help wondering about Stephen’s words. How a muggle-born was at the top – or second, behind Harry himself, depending on the class – in almost all their classes despite having no before-hand life experience with magic, or how a timid boy like Longbottom defeated the most powerful dark wizard since Grindelwald.

‘ _Weird how some things happen like that,_ ’ Harry repeated. Yet something still felt off to him.

Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had their flying lesson at ten o’clock that same morning; Slytherin and Gryffindor was scheduled for later that day at half-passed three. On a flat lawn just outside the Forbidden Forest, the two houses were lined up opposite each-other. Harry was with Stephen and, surprisingly, Lisa Turpin stood on his other side. The cold girl was alone and had apparently not warmed up to being a Ravenclaw yet because she was not talking to any of the other girls.

When their instructor, Madam Hooch, arrived, everyone was abuzz with excitement. She had short, gray hair with eyes that put Harry in the mind of a hawk. After everyone stood beside one of the school brooms that had been lined up on the ground, Hooch told them how to summon brooms: hand over it and shout “up.” Simple enough, but Harry’s broom was one of the few that were in hand on the first try. Stephen managed his on the fourth try, but Turpin was busy glaring at hers with hate in her eyes. “Up!” she growled, but nothing happened.

“I think you’ve got to be calmer,” advised Harry cautiously, waving his own broom in her direction as proof he knew what he was talking about.

Turpin sent him a withering glare and, after an impromptu staring contest, released a deep breath before quietly hissing, “Up…” It was shaky, but the broom was in her hand. She sent him a mild look and a stiff nod, but Harry gave a half-smile back in understanding of the nonverbal “thank you.”

The rest of the lesson was simple enough. Harry and Turpin were of the minority that only got into the air enough to prove they could do it before landing shortly after. Stephen, Anthony Goldstein, and the rest of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff boys were gliding around happily.

After some jeering from his housemates, Hufflepuff muggle-born boy Justin Finch-Fletchley tried preforming a loop mid-air. When Madam Hooch had to end the lesson in order to escort the crying boy to Madam Poppy Pomfrey, the school’s healer, Harry could not hold back his sneer.

“Stupid muggle-born,” Lisa Turpin was glaring at the boy. Harry found himself nodding in agreement, but said nothing because Stephen sent both of them a reproachful look. Stephen marched Harry away soon after, but not before the young Potter sent Turpin a small wave.

* * *

Stephen had all but dragged Harry away from their flying lesson and did not stop until they were well inside the castle. As they walked, Harry sent the taller boy a confused look, but Stephen denied that there was anything wrong. Harry might have believed him had the blonde not been sending him weird looks the rest of the day.

They sat together as usual for their next Defense Against the Dart Arts lesson, but Stephen was much quieter. Professor Quirrell fumbled around with some scraps of parchment on his desk before saying, “G-good after-n-noon class!” There were scattered murmurs in reply; everyone had given up on Quirrell teaching them any interesting magic. The professor continued, “I-I think that three weeks is enough t-time for the W-Wand-Lighting Ch-Charm!”

The class seemed to perk up at that. “Today I will be teaching you the C-Curse of B-Boogies!” Harry was disappointed, having already learned to cast that spell, but Stephen and the others in class was pulled from their inattention. Qurrell’s wand fluttered through the air in a misshaped “U” pattern. “Mucus ad Nauseam!” Qurrell spoke without a stutter and a green light shot forth from his wand and impacted, without effect, against a classroom wall.

Everyone seemed mightily disappointed. Qurrell stuttered an explanation, “T-this curse causes a s-severe cold and a r-runny n-nose!”

“At least it’s something,” Stephen muttered sorrowfully as the class began practicing the spell. Harry got another five points for Ravenclaw after he demonstrated the spell to the class. Stephen managed the spell as well and so did some of the Slytherins that were in class with them. Draco Malfoy got five points for his own house because of it, too; just like Harry.

When class finally came to an end and everyone was making their way out, Harry waved Stephen on and hung back. When the classroom was empty save for Harry and Professor Quirrell, the emerald eyed first year made his way towards the teacher. Quirrell, meanwhile, was straightening his notes and did not seem to realize Harry was behind him. “Professor Quirrell, sir,” asked Harry, causing the man to almost jump off the floor as he quickly turned around. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” This was a bad idea, Harry could already tell.

“N-no, you’re f-fine, Mr. Potter. Now, wh-what do you need?” asked Professor Quirrell as he took deep calming breathes.

“Well, sir, I already know the Curse of the Boogies,” said Harry.

Quirrell gave him a bland look before saying, “Yes, I know, Mr. Potter, I gave you points for casting it, didn’t I? Mr. Malfoy, too, I think.” Harry was surprised; he had never heard his professor use sarcasm before.

Blushing as he realized his mistake, Harry said, “I-I know, sir. I just meant, well, uh… I’m trying to stay ahead because--“ Professor Snape is practically forcing me to or he will kill me in Potions when I fall behind – Harry wanted to say. Instead-- “I’d like to support my house.” Harry decided to use that as his excuse. “And I was wondering if you could suggest any spells I should learn for Defense?”

Professor Quirrell gave him a piercing look and, once again, Harry was reminded of the Quirrell he had seen at Gringotts. “Y-you know I was in R-Ravenclaw myself,” said Quirrell, surprising Harry. He looked like the Hufflepuff type, honestly. “Studies are im-important, Mr. Potter; doubly so for a Ravenclaw.”

“Exactly, sir,” agreed Harry with a smile. “So do you have any suggestions?”

“I might,” Quirrell said evenly. “Try the Severing Charm and the Fire-Making Charm after that; chapters four and five, respectively, in your textbooks. Both are first year spells, but even a powerful wizard uses them from time-to-time. Lots of uses, those spells.”

Quirrell said it like there was an inside joke there, but Harry did not get it. “Thank you, sir!” he said instead. “That should help.”

As Harry turned to leave, he heard Quirrell mutter, “I’m always here to help, Mr. Potter.”

* * *

There was a sudden rise in visits to see Madam Pomfrey in the days following Professor’s Quirrell’s lessons on the Curse of the Boogies. Terry Boot was the first Ravenclaw after he, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner decided to practice it. Goldstein took credit for the act, losing two house points. Lisa Turpin, to Harry’s amusement, had sent Kevin Entwhistle – the only muggle-born Ravenclaw in their year - shortly thereafter. No reason was ever given, but Harry had his suspicions.

“That girl’s evil,” Stephen said suddenly one night during his and Harry’s regular study sessions in the Ravenclaw dormitories. A copy of Miranda Goshawk’s _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ was opened up on the desk between them and a piece of parchment with a list of spells rested beside it.

Harry looked up from his own list and fixed the Cornfoot boy was a questioning eye. “Who’s evil? Not McGonagall again because I think-“

“No, not Professor McGonagall,” interrupted Stephen with a little more heat than he intended. He had been thinking on this ever since their flying lessons nearly a week prior. “I’m talking about Lisa Turpin.”

“Oh, _her_ ,” said Harry dismissively. Honestly, the emerald eyed boy had barely even spoken to the Ravenclaw girl since the train ride before the Sorting Ceremony. Still-- “I don’t think she’s evil.”

“Well I do,” Stephen was giving his friend a pointed look; one Harry did not understand. “You heard about Kevin Entwhistle, right? The muggle-born she cursed!”

“I heard,” Harry affirmed with a slight grimace causing Stephen’s eyes to narrow at him. Harry, who did not notice, just continued, “What about it? People have been cursing left-and-right since Professor Quirrell taught the first years the spell. I don’t think Turpin’s evil for doing the same.”

“But that’s not just it!” Stephen’s voice was louder than usual and he seemed panicked about something. “You heard what she said when that Finch-Flechy kid hurt himself flying! _‘Stupid muggle-born,’_ she called him. Like he was bad just ‘cause he was a muggle-born! And she just so happens to curse the only muggle-born first year in Ravenclaw!”

Harry gave the _pureblood_ Cornfoot a blank look. “That seems like a bit much. Don’t you think you’re being a harsh? Have you even talked to her?”

“It’s not just that! I heard from Padma Patil, who shares a room with her, that Turpin wanted to be sorted into Slytherin! That proves it!” There was a pleading tone to his voice; like he was begging Harry to understand.

 But he was not. “Proves what? That she’s ambitious? Cunning? It doesn’t matter what house you get; just what you do.” What was Stephen going on about anyway?

“But you know about the war, Harry!” Cornfoot’s work was abandoned at his side; every bit of his attention was focused on staring at Harry now. “You’re dad’s an Auror so you have to know. Every one of You-Know-Who’s followers came from Slytherin!”

“Is that what this is about?” Harry dropped his quill with a deep sigh. “All the Death Eaters did not just come from Slytherin.” James Potter had devoted most of his time in the D.M.L.E. to hunting down Peter Pettigrew and he was both a Death Eater and a Gryffindor.

“Why are you trying to defend her!?” screeched a now frantic Stephen. “You two aren’t even friends!”

“I’m not defending Turpin! I just don’t think you should call her a Muggle-hater for no reason!” If the young Potter boy was yelling, he did not notice.

Stephen, however, did because he yelled back, “That’s what I’m talking about! I saw you after Turpin insulted Finch-Flety! You were nodding! Then there’s that look you get whenever McGonagall compares you to Granger-- _That one right there!_ ” A scowl had formed on Harry’s face at the mere mention of the bushy haired muggle-born. “What do you have against muggle-borns!?”

“I don’t have anything against muggle-borns,” insisted Harry hotly.

“Muggles, then. What’s your problem with them?”

Harry really, _really_ wanted to deny that, but he could not. He did have a problem with Muggles, but it was not prejudice; they were just dangerous is all. “They’re Muggles,” answered Harry before he could stop himself. Stephen’s wide eyed response made Harry immediately regret it and found himself explaining, “It’s just Muggles! So what?”

Stephen said nothing. His brown eyes were so wide Harry was surprised they did not fall out. The blonde’s mouth opened and closed. When he finally spoke, it was it broken, cold tones, “ _‘They’re Muggles,’_ you say. Harry I-- I don’t think I can deal with that.”

“What!? You’re not even a muggle-born; you’re a pureblood, for Merlin’s sake,” shouted Harry. “I don’t even hate Muggles; I just don’t want anything to do with them. What does it matter to you?”

“My dad is what matters!” yelled Stephen. His eyes narrowed at Harry like he was the most evil thing in the world. “Death Eaters killed him while he was protecting some Muggles! For me to hate Muggles, or even be friends with somebody who does, it’s just wrong.”

Harry just stared as an odd sense of detached calmness overcame him. When Stephen started gathering up his things, the Potter boy snapped, “So that’s it? You’re refusing to be friends with a wizard because of a Muggle?” There was a hint of venom in the boy’s voice.

Stephen actually glared at him in reply. “Yes, I am. I’m choosing the ‘ _filthy Muggles_ ’ over you, Harry Potter!”

“Have you even met a Muggle before?” asked Harry bitterly, ignoring the insulting tone. At Cornfoot’s blank look, Harry said, “They’re not like us! They hate magic. They hate us. Magicals and Muggles; we’re too different.”

“Maybe so, but if I started hating Muggles, what would that say about my dad? Did you lose any parents in the war? Any family members at all?” When Harry said nothing, Stephen nodded. “Thought not. Good-bye, Potter.”

Harry followed Stephen Cornfoot with his eyes as the taller boy stormed off into the dormitories with a deep sigh. Harry still remembered the Sorting Hat’s words: 

* * *

_“You would do well there, I think,”_ the Sorting Hat had said to Harry. _“Slytherin would quench your thirst for recognition; first Potter sorted there in generations, after all. They would also appreciate your bit of… prejudice easier than other.”_ When Harry began wondering what prejudice he had, the hat said, _“Oh surely you noticed? ‘Muggle-born Granger,’ you call her. You don’t think very highly of Muggles, do you?”_

* * *

Maybe he was suited for Slytherin. Maybe he really was a prejudice little git. Maybe he should have let the hat put him with the children of Death Eaters. He could not even keep his first friend for a full three weeks, what did that say about him?

With another sigh, Harry spared his text book a sad look. No longer feeling up to studying, Harry gathered up his things and went to his dormitories. Even after this fight he, Cornfoot, and Terry Boot still had to share a room together.

Another sigh echoed through-out the otherwise empty Ravenclaw common room.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	6. Power of Intent

When Harry Potter awoke the night after his fight with Stephen he had been expecting something. Harry expected the blonde pureblood to apologize, or yell at him, or sneer at him, a big confrontation; _something_. What Harry did not expect was what he got: nothing. Stephen was already up and out of the Ravenclaw dormitories well before Harry even woke up and the pureblood boy sat as far away from Harry as possible during their classes. Harry had been forced to hold back a vindictive sneer when Cornfoot had somehow managed to transfigure his quill into a needle and stab himself again; Professor McGonagall took points from Ravenclaw for the mistake before sending the boy off to Madam Pomfrey.

Charms class that same evening was interesting, though.

“Alright, class,” squeaked Professor Flitwick from his spot on his bile of books in front of the class. “Who can demonstrate the Softening Charm?”

Harry almost had his hand in the air when-- “Over here, Professor!” Hermione Granger was practically bouncing in her seat between Longbottom and Dunbar. The look on the muggle-born's face was nothing but expectant. When Flitwick nodded her way, she pulled out a thin wand and pointed it at her desk before she made a swerving motion and yelled, “ _Spongify!_ ”

She then proceeded to drop her Charms book on the desk and the whole class watched as it gave a slight bounce; never lifting into the air. Harry thought it was a pretty weak Softening Charm, but Flitwick squeaked and applauded. “Well done, Ms. Granger! Five points to Gryffindor. Professor McGonagall also tells me it’s your birthday today. Congratulations!”

The bushy muggle-born blushed a deep shade of red before sinking into her seat. Dunbar seemed to be teasing her because Granger’s red face turned an even deeper shade and even Longbottom had a little color on his chubby cheeks. Harry sent the three of them a glare before giving his head of house a milder glare. Harry had never much cared for Professor Flitwick; had not since the short teacher had practically fallen over himself their first lesson because of the famous Boy-Who-Lived.

“That girl sure is smart. Makes you wonder why she’s not in Ravenclaw,” Anthony Goldstein said from Harry’s side. Ever since Stephen broke up their friendship, Harry had found himself spending time with the halfblood Goldstein instead.

“She’s not that smart,” insisted Harry as he always did when this particular Gryffindor muggle-born came up. “She just reads a lot. Anybody can do that. I’ve yet to see any actual skill from her.” That, Harry knew, was stretching it; while technically true, Granger had a freaky ease with learning new spells. One few, even magical raised, seemed able to match. Harry was determined to be one of the few that could surpass her.

“I think you’re just jealous,” teased Anthony with a grin. “Since McGonagall keeps comparing you two, I can see why you’re so competitive with her.”

“Competition implies she rivals me, _which she doesn’t_. She just reads a lot; that doesn’t mean she’s powerful.” Emerald eyes glared at the Goldstein boy before Harry added, “Also, you owe me a game of Wizard's Chess for that insult; comparing me to Granger.” Anthony laughed and nodded his head in acceptance to Harry’s challenge. Of course, the Potter boy lost that game later that night in the Ravenclaw’s dormitories just as he had all the ones prior. Harry may have liked Wizard’s Chess, but Goldstein was the better player.

The next day – a Friday – was surprisingly hectic considering Ravenclaw first years did not have any classes. Harry found out it was because Quidditch team try-outs were starting. Michael Corner and Terry Boot were the most vocal about it amongst the first year boys. “I wish first years could try-out…” Bemoaned Terry Boot from his spot at the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall. “I’ve got a wicked broom at home and I’m a great flyer. I bet I could get on the team.” Corner was saying much of the same beside him.

“Why don’t we go watch the try-outs?” suggested Anthony Goldstein. Corner and Boot were out of the hall after barely an excited nod of agreement. When Anthony stood to follow he sent a questioning look at Harry. “Want to come? I know you don’t like Quidditch, but it’s something to do.”

“I’m fine,” said Harry was a slight smile. “Go on. I’ve got some work to catch up on, anyway. Gotta use these weekends for something, you know?”

“If you’re sure. If you end up changing your mind we’ll be on the pitch.” Goldstein walked of, calling over his back. “See you, Harry!” The Potter boy watched his fellow Ravenclaws retreating backs with a slight grimace. Finishing his breakfast, Harry left the Great Hall himself shortly after.

While saying he still had “work” do to might not have been true, Harry had been agonizing over the list of spells Professor Quirrell had given him and could not very well practice the Fire-Making Charm in the dormitories and the last time he tried using the Severing Charm resulted in torn bed sheets. Harry had never been more thankful for his mother making him learn the Mending Charm first thing after getting his wand.

During one of his morning walks before class, by sheer chance and boredom, Harry had found one of the many Hogwarts secret passages his dad and Uncle Sirius had always talked about using. Harry made his way behind the statue of a wizard on the first floor and moved through a series of rooms.

The first room was large, with a single bookcase that Harry had to climb in order to get to a balcony leading to a second room, which was a large hall filled with bookcases. He had to jump from one bookcase to another in order to move on to the next room. The third and last room was a large carpeted hall with very high windows and bookcases that he climbed in order to reach the third floor. This round-about method of travel, though tiresome, served its purpose as Harry managed to avoid the pesky attentions of the ever watchful Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch, and his evil cat, Mrs Norris. Both of whom had taken to patrolling the entrances to the third floor corridor.

Despite Headmaster Dumbledore’s warnings of “painful death,” Harry was perfectly fine. The first night Harry had found the passage he had explored the hall and after finding a locked door with some wards on it, concluded this was the source of Dumbledore’s warnings. Since then Harry had avoided the door and deemed the rest of the floor safe and today was no different as the young Potter made his way towards an empty classroom on the opposite end of the corridor from the locked door. The abandoned classroom was poorly lit and there seemed to be dust forming on the ceiling and around the desks. No spider webs, Harry noticed interestedly, but ignored it soon after.

Clearing off a spot for his things on the teacher’s desk, Harry pulled out his copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ before opening the textbook up and flipping through the pages. When he finally found the page he was searching for, Harry read aloud: “ _Severing Charm – Incan. Diffindo (deef-IN-doe); with the Severing Charm, the cutting or tearing of objects is a simple matter of wand control. The spell can be quite precise in skilled hands, and the Severing Charm is widely used in a variety of wizarding trades. Useful as it is, this charm should be practiced with caution, as a careless swipe of the wand can cause injury._ ”

Harry traced the crude diagram of the wand movements for a few second before turning and pulling out his wand. Leveling the slightly bent tip of his Blackthorn and Ash wand with a dusty old desk, Harry made a quick slashing movement and said, “ _Diffindo!_ ” A blurring white light shot forth and one of the legs from the desk fell off with a seamless cut. Harry, who had been aiming at the desk’s body and not the legs, was less than pleased with the result. He repeated the process on another desk and – “ _Diffindo!_ ” – this time a deep gash appeared on the table-top in a shower of splinters, but it was still very much whole. “I keep missing!” he hissed.

Harry repeated the spell again and again, but ten minutes later he was left with nothing more than a classroom of mutilated desks. None, however, was cut neatly enough for Harry’s tastes because he was currently flipping angrily through his textbook. “What am I doing wrong!?”

“M-m-might I be of assistance, Mr. P-Potter?” a stuttering voice asked from the door. Harry, filling with dread, turned on the spot and was greeted with the familiar sight of Professor Quirrell.

His silent dread building, Harry said, “Hello, sir. I know I’m not supposed to be in this corridor, but--“

“You wanted to p-p-practice your m-magic,” finished Quirrell. “Understandable. Though I am c-curious, how did you manage to get passed F-Filch so easily?”

Knowing complete honesty was the only way he was getting out of this without detention, Harry explained, “There’s a secret passage behind one of the wizard statues on the first floor. It comes out just down the hall a bit.”

Quirrell seemed very interested in this piece of information, but said no more. Fully expecting the professor’s next words to be a detention, Harry was surprised when Quirrell said, “It’s your intent.”

Suddenly confused, Harry was about to ask what the professor was talking about when he remembered his attempts with the Severing Charm. “My intent, sir?” he asked instead.

“Magic is about two things,” said Quirrell with a strange tone of voice. Not his usual stutter or fragile tones; there was a bit of steel to it, if that made sense. Quirrell was saying: “Intent and power. The more powerful the spell, the more intent is needed.” That made sense, Harry accepted, but how does he use intent? Quirrell seemed to be expecting that question because he said, “When you cast a Wand-Lighting Charm are you thinking about the rules to cast the spell or are you thinking ‘I need light’?” Before Harry could answer, the professor continued, “It’s the same with all magic. The Wand-Lighting Charm is just an easier spell.”

Pulling out his wand, Professor Quirrell gave it a short wave as he muttered a quiet spell, the Mending Charm – _Reparo!_ \- before one of the desks “pulled” itself back together. “Try again,” ordered Quirrell. “But this time think about what you want the spell to do, not just what it’s supposed to do.”

Harry raised a quirked eyebrow at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor before doing as he was told. Turning his black wand onto the desk, Harry imagined the desk splitting in half as he gave his wand a sharp jerk. “ _Diffindo!_ ” he called out and, with a blur and flash of white light, the pristine desk split in half as it was struck by Harry’s spell.

With wide eyes Harry stared at his achievement with a sense of pride. He was so busy marveling at what he had done he had forgotten about the professor until he heard a muffled cough and turned to see the man giving him a condescending look and said, “Well done, Mr. Potter. I’d give you points, but you should be serving a detention right now.” With a sheepish look, Harry turned away from the professor. “I’m not going to, though. Consider this a warning. Next time, however, I suggest a better venue for practice.”

“Thank you, sir, for your help and, well, everything else!” Harry was so relieved; his mother would kill him if he got a detention his first month of school and Professor Snape would say he was “James Potter Version Two” before he tried to make Harry’s life miserable.

“Just find some place safer,” said Professor Quirrell blandly. “Might I suggest the first floor? That’s not out of bounds. Now gather your things and be off. I don’t want the other teachers knowing you’re here so we can both just pretend this meeting never happened and not tell anyone.”

“Of course, sir!” agreed Harry before gathering his things and leaving Professor Quirrell behind.

Harry never thought to ask Quirrell what he was doing on the restricted third floor corridor. He never noticed how the professor’s stutter seemed to go away. He also never noticed the smirk that was on Quirinus Quirrell’s face after the young Potter had left.

By the time he would ever begin to wonder it would already be too late.

* * *

After his fight with Stephen Cornfoot in late September, Harry’s life had fallen into a bit of a routine.

He would sit with Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot in the Great Hall for breakfast, attend his morning classes, meet up with Goldstein for a few games of wizard’s chess or something, and then attend his evening class. Although he would have liked to have spent more time actually practicing the Fire-Making Charm, between Professor Snape’s vindictive pleasure in asking him questions no first year who had only been in class for a month would have any business knowing, his class work, and actually finding a suitable enough place to practice a fire conjuring spell, the young boy had no time.

The only conciliation was that Harry held no small ounce of pride that he had yet to miss one of Snape’s questions and the look that crossed the potions master’s face – one caught between a snarl and a faint smile – was as grotesque as it was uplifting for the emerald eyed boy.

By the 30th of October, Harry was no closer to finding the time to practice and was frustrated beyond measure. Ravenclaw’s morning class of Transfiguration with Hufflepuff that evening did not help because Professor McGonagall actually assigned them a written essay on the “what-to and not to-dos” when it comes to Transfiguration.

Professor Quirrell’s Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson later that same afternoon was disappointing, too. Quirrell stuttered terribly and seemed to be sending his eyes towards the door every few seconds. Although he may have been imagining it, Harry also thought the strange professor was sending him weird looks.

Charms class with Gryffindor the next morning, however, proved disastrous despite Harry’s initial hopes.

Flitwick, from his position on a pile of books, announced at the beginning of class that they were finally prepared to actually learn how to make objects fly. Everyone had been eager ever since they saw the short professor float a book around the glass. After Flitwick started sorting them into pairs, Harry tried to edge his way over to Goldstein when Cornfoot sent him strange looks, but Corner beat him to it. Boot, thankfully, was paired with Cornfoot. Harry, however--

“Potter,” greeted one Lisa Turpin in her usual clipped tones when Flitwick paired them together. Harry nodded back in kind, but tried to focus on his textbook’s entry about the Levitation Charm.

“Now don’t forget the nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing,” squeaked Professor Flitwick from his pile of books as he waved his wand around to demonstrate. “Swish and flick; remember, _swish and flick_. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too. Never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.”

Maybe it was his years in the Muggle world, but Harry wondered if anyone else appreciated the irony of Baruffio’s demise. Thinking better than to mention that to his current partner, Harry gave the feather he was supposed to be levitating a “swish and flick” while saying, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The feather shook slightly, but did not move. Turpin, likewise, was making little progress. Harry was on his third try and was improving with every attempt when he heard a hiss from over by the Gryffindor section of class. “You’re saying it wrong,” scolded one ever annoying Hermione Granger to her own partner, Neville Longbottom. “It’s Wing- _gar_ -dium Levi-o- _sa_ , make the ‘gar’ nice and long.”

‘ _Granger’s wand is not even out and she's already giving advice,_ ’ thought Harry was a vicious sneer. Longbottom did have his out, but seemed to be making even less progress than Harry. The terrified expression on the chubby boy’s face hinted at hidden terror.

“I can’t do it!” whined Longbottom, causing Harry to roll his eyes. “C-can you show me?”

Having heard enough, Harry turned back to his own work. With narrowed emerald eyes framed by square rimmed glasses, the Potter boy and son of Lily Potter, the Charms mistress, pointed his wand and said, “ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ”

The feather shifted lightly before rising into the air with a gentle sway. Turpin seemed envious, but was impressed nonetheless. When Harry heard clapping and Professor Flitwick’s happy squeal of “Well done!” he was able to smile for all of a second before the Charms teacher finished, “Everyone see here, Ms. Granger’s done it!” His feather falling with an undignified flicker into the desk, Harry’s concentration was broken as he whirled around and looked towards Granger’s direction. The muggle-born’s feather was indeed in the air and Flitwick was so busy watching the Gryffindor he had missed Harry – a member of Flitwick’s own house – cast the very same spell.

Seeing red now, Harry’s fury increased ten-fold when Flitwick pronounced, “Ten points to Gryffindor for excellent spell work, Ms. Granger!” The bushy haired Gryffindor sank into her seat with a bright red face.

Harry raised a shaking hand – one motivated by pure anger – into the air and practically shouted, “I’ve got it, too, Professor Flitwick!” Making sure the head of Ravenclaw’s attention was on him, Harry cast the Levitation Charm again and his feather floated into the air. Out of a sense of spite, Harry made his go even higher up than Granger’s had.

Everyone looked very impressed, even Granger. Flitwick smiled broadly at the young Potter and said, “Good work, Mr. Potter.” Yet gave no points.

Harry sank into his seat with a deep scowl on his face while Turpin kept trying to practice. “He gave her points,” Harry was muttering under his breathe; Turpin, who was the only one who could hear him, was giving him strange looks. “He gave the muggle-born points, but not someone in his own house?” The emerald eyed boy sent the Gryffindor section an intense glare. Granger was busy trying to help Longbottom cast the charm while Dunbar and a red haired boy Harry remembered from the sorting as “Weasley, Ronald,” waved their wands around like idiots.

A boy who is practically a squib defeats the most powerful dark wizard in centuries and a muggle-born learns spells better than a class filled with people who have been raised around magic their whole lives. “There is something wrong with the world,” hissed Harry as he sent a glare towards the bushy haired muggle-born.

Lisa Turpin spared him an odd look before following his line of sight. After Longbottom’s feather burst into flames she seemed to catch on because she said, “Yes, there is.” Harry grunted in agreement before moving on to help some of his housemates.

By the end of the class four more students succeeded in casting the spell – all were raised magical. As Harry watched the pureblood Anthony Goldstein float his feather around his desk lazily, Harry could not help but remember Granger’s nearly reaching the ceiling. The thought made his hand clench in anger.

* * *

Harry was in such a terrible mood that as soon as the class was over he was one of the first to leave. Goldstein and some of his other Ravenclaw house-mates sent him confused looks, but said nothing. Lisa Turpin watched him leave with a calculating look before drifting into the crowd.

Since morning Charms was, thankfully, Ravenclaw’s last class of the day, Harry was free to do as he liked. Goldstein and the other Ravenclaw boys would no doubt head up to the common room to play games or something, but Harry found himself standing in the halls of the first floor corridor.

Because of the incident in Charms class, Harry was more than a little anxious to practice his spell work. If Granger was going to insist she belonged at Hogwarts with real wizards instead of the story-book ones they burn in Muggle books, Harry was going to make her work for it and even though he had searched a number of places – mainly the empty class rooms near Ravenclaw Tower – Harry had yet to find a place suitable enough for practicing the Fire-Making Charm. It was a sign of his desperation that Harry found himself looking around the first floor like Professor Quirrell had offhandedly suggested because the only other place he had yet to look was the Forbidden Forest.

As it turned out there were three empty classrooms on the first floor. The first, and nearest to the stairs, would have been good, but after catching sight of two red-haired third years crouched over a cauldron, Harry thought better of it. The other two were good choices, but Harry took the one furthest from them – and the stairs. Pushing open the double doors, Harry found this abandoned classroom to be like all the others: a large teacher’s desk near the front and rows of smaller ones with accompanying chairs. There was also, to no one’s surprise, a fairly thick layer of dust on _everything_. Crossing the room, and ignoring the footprints he left behind in the dust, Harry placed his copy of Miranda Goshawk's _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ , on the teacher's desk.

Flipping furiously through the pages, Harry quickly found his place. Reading aloud, he said, “ _Fire Making Spell. Incan. Incendio (in-SEN-dee-o); from lighting a warm hearth to igniting a Christmas pudding, the Fire-Making Spell, or Charm if you prefer, is always useful around the wizarding household. However, the ability to produce fire with the flick of a wand can be dangerous to your fellow students (and worse, your books)._ Nodding his head absently, Harry traced the small diagram depicting the wand movements as a lower case 'n' with a sharp point at the top.

Turning around to face one of the student desks, Harry pulled his slightly crooked tipped wand out, aiming the end squarely at the desk. Performing the requisite movements, Harry shouted, “In-cen-do!” For his efforts, he was rewarded with a few sparks, but no flames. Realizing his mistake, the young Potter boy kept his eyes on the desk. Repeating the wand motions, he tried again, “In-SEE-dee-o!” Harry had just enough time to realize his mistake before he saw it; or rather, felt it. There was a flash of bright light, but the young Ravenclaw first noticed the burning feeling on his fingers.

In an act very unbecoming of any wizard, Harry yelped in pain before dropping his wand and taking a sudden leap backwards. However, in his startled daze, the young boy forgot where he was standing and, as a result, crashed into the teacher's desk. Hissing in equal measures pain and wounded pride, Harry pushed himself off the desk before storming over to his downed wand. Snatching up from the ground and smiling at the renewed feeling of power in his hand, he angrily turned to face the student desks again before snarling out, “In-SEN-dee-o!!

His pleasure at finally pronouncing the spell correctly was short lived when nothing happened. Now remembering he forgot to perform the wand movements, he tried again: making the “n”-like pattern with his curved wand, Harry said again, “In-SEN-dee-o!” Still, however, nothing happened. Determined, the Ravenclaw first year repeated both the wand motions and incantation again, and again, and again...

“In-SEN-dee-o!” screamed Harry Potter after nearly twenty minutes of trying; his only reward was a quick flash of light from wand before a small flame appeared along the wall, on the other side of the room from the desk. When the unmarked and unscorched form of the desk continued to stand motionless, seemingly taunting him, Harry quickly snarled, “Diffindo!” Without even a seconds delay, the desk split cleanly in half.

“Why isn't this working!?” snapped one irate Potter child. “I'm saying it right! I'm performing the movements right! What am I missing!?” Storming over to his textbook, he furiously flipped through the pages, searching for an explanation. “I'm doing it right, I know it!” he told himself. “So **why! won't! it! work** **!** ” Whirling around, he cast again, “In-SEN-dee-o!” A jet of flame answered his call, but it quickly split apart before catching a desk on fire, but not the one he had been aiming at.

' _I had the same problem with the Severing Charm,_ ' thought Harry, trying to calm himself. ' _I'm saying it right, I ‘m doing the right movements, the affect is still there, but I keep missing._ ' He tried again, but this time the jet of flames shot straight up, leaving a scorch mark on the ceiling.

“What am I doing wrong!?”

* * *

_“What am I doing wrong!?” Harry had asked a book._

_“It’s your intent.” Professor Quirinus Quirrell had answered.  
_

* * *

Harry remembered. Professor Quirrell had said magic was about two things: power and intent. His magical blood gave him his power, his calling to be a wizard, but... ' _Where to find intent?_ ' questioned Harry. With the Severing Charm he had only needed to visualize the affects, but this one was different; this was an elemental spell. The elements were always more fickle, more difficult to control and fire was always the strongest; that is what his mother, Lily Potter, had always said.

Fixing the untouched desks before him with a questioning look, Harry thought about his intent. He wanted the desk to burn, but that did not seem to be enough. He wanted to be a great wizard, but that seemed to be too broad. What was his...

Then it came to him: Granger; Hermione Granger, the Muggle-born. He wanted to beat her. The Muggle-born who thought she belonged with wizards, the Muggle-born who thought she was better than everyone else because she could do magic just like in her childhood story books. This was it; this was his intent. To prove she did not belong here; to prove that just because she could cast a few spells it did not mean she had learned all there was to magic. That there was more to being magical than the ability to light-up a wand and float a feather. That there was power in magic; that it should be respected, like wizards do; not hated like the Muggles do. Without even realizing it, Harry’s grip around his wand was so strong his knuckles had turned white.

Mind clear now, Harry's emerald eyes hardened as they focused on the desk before him. Professor Quirrell said magic was about two things: power and intent. His parents gave him the power; Harry needed to give himself the intent. With a steady hand, Harry aimed his curved wand's tip at the stationary desk. Picturing Granger's face, the look in her eyes when she realized she was not the greatest simply because she could use magic, the sorrow there when she realized she was truly a just a normal witch, and that Muggles burned witches.

Smiling, Harry waved his wand and, calmly, hissed out, “ _Incendio!_ ” The affect was instantaneous: there was a bright flash of light before a stream of orange-red fire shot forward. So much larger than the mere streams from before, this miniature river of flames did not simply catch the desk on fire as the others had, but consumed it. The crackling and bopping noises of burnt wood filled the room in seconds; the scent of ash already present.

Harry had only moments to enjoy his triumph before he looked deeper into the flames. There being burned away in the fire was not a simple desk, but a memory from years long past. A woman with blonde hair was on fire and her clothes were being burned away, her face was contorted into silent screams. It was the woman from the Muggle witch burning book he had seen years before. Without even realizing it, Harry's wand hit the floor with a silent thud. His hands were shaking and before he even had time to blink he noticed he was no longer looking down on the flames, but up at them.

Readjusting himself so that he was now on his knees instead of sitting on the floor - when had he fallen? -  Harry looked at the fire again. The witch's face was gone now and only the softly burning charred husk of a desk remained. When his eyes began to blur, Harry absently rubbed at them and was surprised by the wetness that greeted his effort. It was a tear; he had been crying. Since when? Looking back at the fire, his emerald eyes now saw only ash. The flames were gone.

Seeing his wand on the floor – again; shameful - Harry was quick to pick it up, but it felt heavier than it was before; like it had gained something extra and was more than it was because of it. Even as his fingers clenched around the black colored wood, he felt the tremors that shook his hand. Tightly clenching his hand to control the shakes, Harry gently pushed himself to his feet – and ignored how his knees wobbled with the effort.

Stealing one last glance back at the silent pile of ash where once a desk had been, the first year Ravenclaw was reminded again of what he had seen; anxious to forget it, Harry quickly turned away. Making his way for the door and determined to leave both the pile of ash and the memories it brought forth, the emerald eyed youth pushed his way through the large double doors and into the wide halls of Hogwarts’ first floor corridor.

At some point, while he was practicing, night had fallen. A short glance out the nearest window revealed a glowing sliver of moon indicating nightfall was hours ago. Absently wondering if he had already missed the Hallowe'en feast or if there would even be any food left, Harry Potter started his way down the long hall leading back towards the stairs.

With the soft foot falls of eleven-year-old sized feet and the quiet wind outside as his only company, the young Ravenclaw found it difficult to keep his mind off what he had just been doing and, more importantly, what he had seen in the fire. Harry had thought his day of fearing Muggles was long past; left behind him in that Morganna cursed primary school with his Muggle cousin. Judging by his reaction, though, it would seem otherwise. Now, away from the fire, the youngest Potter could safely say he had over reacted. Instead of feeling thrilled he had finally mastered such a difficult spell, Harry was worrying about books he had read when he was eight. Firmly deciding the whole thing was silly, Harry quickly put it out of his mind.

Only now realizing how tired he really was, the first year was prepared to ignore the feat altogether and head straight back to Ravenclaw dormitories. Before he could even reach the stairs, however, he was caught off guard; not by a spell or even a person, but by a smell. The odd mixture of Muggle sewage and dirty laundry. More than a little confused, Harry's first reaction was to cover his nose with the folds of his sleeves. Seeing nothing in front of him that would make such a terrible smell, the young Potter turned around.

What he saw surprised him greatly.

Just a few feet away from the classroom Harry had just left and only faintly illuminated by the beams of moonlight and few scant torches was a huge figure standing so tall it nearly reached the ceiling with dark-gray colored skin. Its lumpy body was most made up of its huge build that contrasted greatly with its tiny head and short legs as thick as tree trunks. Its flat feet shuffled around in place, sending loud thudding noises all along the hall. However, worse than its huge size and even worse that its terrible smell was the sight of what it held in its hand: a massive wooden club bigger than Harry's entire body that rested on the floor because of its long arms.

The young first year, he knew, was looking at a massively sized mountain troll and, try as he might, Harry Potter could not move. There was an icy feeling in the pit of his stomach, his legs felt like stone, his arms like lead, and his breathe came out in ragged gasps. Fear. Terror. _Death_. Those thoughts and more like it seized hold of every one of Harry's thoughts and by the time he realized how loud he was breathing, the troll seemed to have already heard him.

The dull and mindless gray of the troll's eyes met the wide and terrified ones of Harry Potter’s emeralds. That look, it seemed, was enough to break the lead in his arms because the next thing the Ravenclaw knew his wand was up – had he not put it away? - and before he could think a spell was already on his lips: “ _Mucus ad Nauseam!_ ”

The weak first year spell succeeded only in giving the massive troll a runny nose; Harry, however, saw none of this. With a frightened yell, the eleven-year-old turned on his heel and started running for the stairs at the end of the hall. The troll, apparently inspired by the thought of a chase, let out a few loud grunting noises before its huge legs began to move. Despite the young boy's head start, his small legs could not cover the distance the large troll’s could.

With the stairs only a few feet away, the hall shook from the reverberations of the troll's mighty stomps. Quickly closing the gap between them, the troll’s massive wooden club came down and nearly crushed the youngest Potter flat. His small size, however, helped him here as Harry was able to jump away just in time before being showered with shards of stone from the now broken Hogwarts floor.

Flushed up against the inner wall, thankfully with his wand still in hand, the young Ravenclaw focused on the huge wooden club. Vaguely recalling Quirrell's words about visualization, Harry yelled, “ _Diffindo!_ ” Instead of splitting the club, as Harry had intended, the spell took a large gash out of the troll's weapon. The following shower of splinters, thank Merlin, blocked the troll's view long enough for Harry to make his way for the stairs. Unbeknownst to Harry, however, a few splinters of wood had found their way into the troll's large eyes. Startled by this sudden pain, the troll wailed around frantically and began swinging its club in any direction it could. The first swing left a hole in the inner stone wall before the next actually knocked out a window and exposing them to a cold draft. The worst, though, came just as Harry reached the stairs.

With escape in sight, Harry actually felt himself smile just seconds before the enraged rush of a charging troll nearly trampled him. The mountain troll, letting out a wail of pained grunting noises, ran past - more like over - the young Potter before crashing into the much smaller stair-way passage. The result? The entire thing collapsed. Cracks webbed out along the walls as chunks of stone fell; many of which landed right on top of the troll's head. Harry was knocked back by the shock of it all and by the time he pulled himself back up the troll's head had disappeared beneath a pile of stone.

Panting in an attempt to catch his breath, the young Potter could literally hear how fast his heart was beating in his chest. Wiping at the sweat along his brow with the sleeve of his Hogwarts robes, Harry's wide emerald eyes fixed the unmoving pile with a fearful yet questioning look. “Is it dead?” he asked and, seemingly in answer, the rubble of stone began to move. With a clearly pained growl, the troll swung its arms around. The club was still – **still!** \- grasped firmly in its hand, but that did not seem to matter as even the creature's long and thick free hand was more than enough to do considerable damage. Combined, though, and the result was nothing but destruction as the hall was seemingly flooded with stone splinters from every direction and the angered sounds of a very mad troll.

Just wanting it all to stop, Harry narrowly avoided a piece of falling stone before pointing his wand at the massive creature and shouting again, “Diffindo!” A long, but shallow cut appeared along the troll's brow line, causing the creature to scream even more. The difference this time, however, was that it had someone to channel that rage at: Harry Potter. Realizing his mistake too late, Harry sent the destroyed stair-way a disappointed look before turning around. He eyes were met with only a dead end and a few classroom doors. If the troll could break the wall it could easily break down a few wooden doors. With no way off the floor, except a long fall out the window and a sudden stop at the end, Harry was well and truly panicking. ' _Surely someone's heard all this,_ ' he reasoned. ' _A teacher or somebody's gotta be on their way, right?_ '

Even if so, the troll did not look keen on waiting. Pushing itself off the ground, the massive beast seemed to be giving him a nasty look before letting out a loud roaring noise and charging forward again. However, the cut from Harry's earlier spell caused the troll's eye to be blinded by its own blood that was still pouring from its gaping forehead wound. Blinded by pain, anger, and blood, the troll's mad charge narrowly missed the Ravenclaw student before crashing into one of the windows. Harry was barely able to jump out of the beast's path and saw the ever growing web of cracks spreading across the walls.

“Now would be a good time for a professor!” grunted Harry as he pushed himself off the ruined floor. Shaking his head to clear the dizziness, the young boy had just enough time to blink a few times before he was lifted up into the air feet first. A painful crushing sensation took hold of his left calf as the troll lifted the boy up into the air, breaking his leg, and bringing them both into direct eye contact. Harry's terrified emerald eyes once again met the dull gray of the troll's, but this time they were in significantly different positions.

Harry was exhausted, but alive; his leg being held by the troll was in extreme pain and his shoulder, back, and knees were sore from being thrown about. The troll, however, stood tall and menacing despite the series of cuts all over its huge body, the largest of which was the one Harry had delivered to its brow. With the young human in one hand and its club in the other, the troll gave a horrific mockery of a smile before its mouth opened wide and Harry found himself being pulled towards it. The troll's tongue was flicking towards him, apparently anxious to taste the young human coming closer.

Realizing the beast's intention, the youngest Potter was filled with terror, but was still able to lift his wand that he had – _amazingly; thankfully_ \- been able to keep hold of until now. Aiming directly at the monster’s open mouth and the rows of teeth found there, Harry screamed for all he was worth: “ _Incendio!_ ” Without delay, a huge burst of orange and red flames shot forth and, instead of the tiny snack it had expected, the troll ate a torrent of fire.

Flushed with distantly felt pride at his successfully casted spell and the pained grunting from the troll, Harry had just enough time to see the beast choke and fall backwards before the grip on his leg was released and he fell - roughly - onto the wrecked stone floor below. As he hit the floor, Harry Potter could actually hear some of his bones give way in a sickening symphony of snapping sounds, but even when pain, _pain_ , **_PAIN_** , flooded his mind he could still see well enough through cloudy eyes to watch as the troll flailed around in agony as it attempted to cough up the flames. It was so distracted, however, that it tripped over one of the many piece of debris that littered the hall and fell backwards into one of the Hogwarts windows behind it.

With a massive _slam!_ the troll fell into the wall. The extensive tapestry of webbed cracks on the wall stretched out even further and, this time, found their way behind the troll's still heaving back. There was a quick series of crunching noises before the entire wall supporting the troll's weight gave out beneath it. Harry could see the brief flash of what looked like surprise on the monster's face before it fell backwards and slide out into the chilly night time air and less than a second later the troll's feet followed it out and there was a large crashing noise far below.

Harry, wanting to see if the troll was really dead this time, tried to move, but the pain put a stop to that thought quickly. Rolling over onto his back without another thought, Harry could faintly hear the sounds of moving stone. Believing the floor beneath him was about to cave out, too, Harry Potter welcomed the blackness the encroached on his sight and was unconscious before he could hear the hurried footsteps that followed.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time -- besides the inciting divergence -- that something truly different has occurred. Harry practicing magic and the lead in to the troll fight is among my favorite scenes in this story. Looking forward to everyone's thought on this!


	7. Back To Class

The first thing he noticed was a bright light; blinding in its brilliance. Such was its strength that almost immediately after seeing this brightness, the emerald eyes of Harry James Potter closed in response. Refusing to open his eyes now, Harry tried to connect his last waking thoughts with his situation now. He had been practicing his spell work, there was a fire, and then he had been attacked by a mountain troll and was almost eaten. After that everything was a blur and his hazy memory was filled with only one word: pain.

“If you intend to continue laying there, Potter, you had best think again,” remarked a _very_ familiar voice. Opening his eyes into a small squint, the first year Ravenclaw confirmed his suspicions when he found the black eyes and greasy haired countenance of one Professor Severus Snape.

“Sorry, sir,” was Harry's quick reply. Adjusting himself so he was in a seated position, the first year soon regretted the motion when he felt a sharp pain in his side. Falling backwards, Harry was very thankful for the soft and comforting mattress he landed on and did his best to ignore the sharp pains in his lower back and legs.

Clearly repressing a sneer, Professor Snape responded to his student’s pain and instructed, “Refrain from moving, Potter. Madam Pomfrey has yet to clear you.”

“Pomfrey?” asked Harry dimly. It was only then that he took in his surroundings: he was resting in a small single bed with white linen sheets and there was a small empty table beside him with an empty bed pan. The rest of the room was a collection of beds just like Harry's own with a few dividers spread around. Snape was sitting in a chair next to Harry’s bed. Realizing he must be in Hogwarts infirmary, the young Ravenclaw was about to ask how he had gotten there when he noticed the view outside the frost tinted windows: ice capped mountains and an open field with nothing but snow. All of which was more than a little surprising considering the last he had heard it was only Hallowe'en.

More than a little confused, Harry asked, “Professor Snape, sir, how long--”

“Three days,” interrupted Hogwarts’ resident potions master. “After word spread of a troll, the students were taken to their dormitories while every teacher searched for the creature. Professor Flitwick was the one to find you; unconscious, next to a rather large hole in the wall.”

“T-that wasn't, me, sir; the troll did that!” defended Harry as his memory suddenly returned to him. When Snape did not seem surprised, the young Potter hesitantly asked, “Is it, you know, dead?”

“Most definitely,” was the professor's blunt answer. “If the fall hadn't been enough, the creature managed to land itself on one of the castle’s spires. It died instantly.” Not certain why, Harry felt himself turn green at the tale of the beast's fate. Heedless, Snape continued, “Filch and Hagrid handled that mess days ago.”

Taking a deep calming breathe like his mother taught him, Harry nodded before saying, “That's good, I guess. I'm glad it's dead.” The most surprising thing, Harry felt, was that he really did mean it, too. The monster had tried to eat him, after all.

Professor Snape eyed the young boy critically for a few moments before he spoke again, “While the matter of the troll's demise has already been cleared up, the matter of your presence outside of the feast is still in question.”

Suddenly tense, Harry explained rather shyly, “Well, I was practicing some spells and I lost track of time. I was on my way to the feast when I, well, you know...” He trailed off distractedly when the memory of almost being swallowed came back to him; the large teeth and anxious looking eyes of the beast, just ready to taste him. Without another word, Harry quickly grabbed the bed pan on the table before relieving himself.

Watching dispassionately as the youngest Potter spit out what little food he had ate in the past couple days, Severus Snape waited until the boy had finished before saying, “Yet, of all the students for the troll to find, it comes across a lone first year and, miraculously, the first floor corridor is destroyed?” Snape's cruelly glinting black eyes drilled into Harry's own with a look of deep suspicion. Harry knew Snape was hinting at the boy's “James Potter-like” qualities; which, in Snape-speech, meant enemy.

Either from the anger of being suspected, nearly being killed, or the sudden flash of memories he felt from before or during the troll's attack - or even some kind of combination - the young Ravenclaw first year felt the sudden onset of a major headache. Clenching his eyes shut and blocking out the memories, Harry took another deep breathe of air before meeting Snape's eyes and saying, “I don't know what happened, sir, but I was walking towards the stairs and the next thing I know there is huge troll behind me, trying to kill me.”

Black and emerald eyes locked into a staring match, Harry willing Snape to believe him, before the potions master nodded. Without warning, the older man stood up. “It would seem,” Snape began in a cold voice. “You are telling the truth, Mr. Potter.” Standing from his chair, he added, “I'll be expecting an essay on mountain trolls and why you should **_not_** approach them.” Before Harry could point out that paper had nothing to do with potions, Snape had already turned on his heel and made his way for the door.

Harry was so relieved Snape did not think he was the second James Potter that he almost jumped when he heard: “Oh, Mr. Potter,” From his position next to the door, Professor Snape spoke softly, “Five points from Ravenclaw for being a reckless Gryffindor.” Despite the words, they lacked the potions professor's usual venom towards all things Gryffindor. Snape then left without so much as another word or a look over his shoulder.

Clearly having gone mad from his injuries, the young Harry actually tried to argue against such an accusation, but when he tried to sit up he was once again overcome with pain. Falling back into the bed again, Harry let out a grimace.

“Just like your father,” muttered a clearly amused woman's voice. “Never could sit still.” Looking to his side, Harry found a kind looking woman with gray hair and blue eyes: Madam Pomfrey, Hogwarts’s resident healer. “Why I remember one incident in your parent's sixth year; James had hurt himself again playing Quidditch and refused to rest. Your mother got so angry at him she conjured a rope and tied him to the bed.”

The woman let out a soft and amused laugh at the end or her story, one Harry mimicked when he pictured the scene. “How much longer until I can get out of here, Madam Pomfrey?” asked the Ravenclaw.

“Definitely take after the father,” she remarked absently before saying, “You seem to be in good condition now. That pain in your side will heal quickly enough now that you're awake. I say you should be ready to go by tomorrow morning.” Any effort to reply on Harry’s part was ended with a soft glare.

Realizing the hopelessness of his situation and feeling utterly exhausted, Harry James Potter felt his eye-lids drift close. It was too early for all this anyway. On the other side of the school, a grandfather clock chimed noon.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey was true to her word and released Harry the following morning after performing a few more healing spells and let him leave with a warning about staying away from dangerous magical creatures and on the condition he check in at least once a day for the next week. As it turned out, however, she did not want a newly released first year roaming the halls alone and requested that someone walk him back to the Ravenclaw dormitories.

Having been expecting either Professor Snape or Professor Flitwick, his head of house, Harry was very disturbed when Argus Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker, came to get him. Although he had never met the man before, stories of Filch and his evil cat were common place so when a hunched back man with tatty gray hair and pale blue eyes came towards him, Harry was easily able to recognize him.

Grumbling all the while, Filch led the first year student towards Ravenclaw Tower and busied himself by sharing stories about hanging students up by their thumbs, floggings, and how hard he had worked to scrub the troll's blood off stone. Needless to say, by the time Filch abandoned him outside the Ravenclaw dormitories brass eagle knocker, Harry felt like relieving himself all over again. Feeling ill now, the young Ravenclaw listened to the door's question -  Skinny I am fast; fat I am slow; but I'll still delight you from your eyes to your nose. What am I? - and after only a few moments, Harry gave his answer: “A candle.”

“Well reasoned,” the knocker responded back before the door swung open. As he passed, the knocker added, “Glad you're feeling better.” Smiling as the door closed behind him, Harry was anxious to get his things and head to class before anyone found him and started asking questions, convinced that what happened was common knowledge by now.

As it turned out, however, he would have little choice. Immediately after entering the Ravenclaw dormitories, Harry was cornered by Terry Boot, who asked how he had killed the troll while Harry could see the Ravenclaw girls Padma Patil and Sue Li gossiping from their positions at one of the tables. Michael Corner and Stephen Cornfoot sent him strange looks, but Cornfoot looked conflicted. Turning away from them, the youngest Potter was suddenly met with another familiar face.

“I'm so sorry,” said Penelope Clearwater, her voice full of remorse. “I mean, I’m a prefect, but I didn’t even think to check if you were missing and-- I just feel like I should have done something! Hilliard had been watching after the younger years and I didn't even notice you were gone. I'm so sorry, Harry!”

Meeting the blonde haired and blue eyed older girl's eyes, Harry responded, “It's really not your fault. It was mine for not being careful enough.”

“More like for being too stupid,” yelled someone from behind the young Potter. Turning around, Harry met the glaring figure of the male Ravenclaw prefect, Robert Hilliard. “What were you thinking, taking on a mountain troll like that!?”

With those few words, Harry had the undivided attention of every Ravenclaw currently in the room; no doubt, by the end of the day, everyone in Hogwarts would know whatever it was he said next. That fact in mind, the emerald eyed Potter chose his words carefully, “I didn't go looking for it; I was practicing my spell-work and the next thing I know there's a troll behind me. I tried to run, but it cornered me. Honestly, I just got lucky.” General nods of agreement and understanding followed his words. A first year killing a mountain troll; what else could it be besides a fluke? Hilliard seemed mollified and, with everyone now going back to their own business, Harry headed for his room. Before he could get there, however, he was stopped again.

“Just lucky, huh, Potter?” Leaning against the frame of the hall-way arch was Lisa Turpin. “As a first year: you fight a mountain troll, blow a hole out of Hogwarts, kill the troll, and then live to tell the tale. I doubt luck had anything to do with it; you had to of used some kind of spell.”

Feeling frustrated now, Harry sighed before saying, “I used three spells: the Boogies curse – which did nothing but make it angry –, the Severing Charm – which made it more angry – and...” He stopped, remembering the face he had seen in the flames of a desk before remembering that same spell had saved his life. “And the Fire-Making Spell. I got a lucky shot in with that last one. The troll's the one that made the hole.”

“Fire-Making Spell?” the Ravenclaw girl seemed surprised by that. “Elemental spells can be difficult to use; they act up more than others. Require more focus. It's only November and you've already learned that?”

Surprised by her apparent praise, Harry felt himself flush red in embarrassment, but could not deny the swell of pride in his chest at her words. “I guess so,” he responded awkwardly. “It's actually the reason I was out late practicing. I had only mastered it less than an hour before the troll showed up.”

Turpin's eyes widened a little at this piece of information, but she made no other comment. Pushing herself off the wall, the first year girl moved past Harry before saying, “I'd like to see your spell-work for myself one day, Harry Potter.”

“Same here, Lisa Turpin,” replied Harry politely as the girl walked off. Shaking his head at the exchange, the emerald eyed Ravenclaw pushed open the door that led to his shared room with Stephan Cornfoot and Terry Boot.

Expecting the room to be empty since its other occupants were currently in the common room, Harry was fairly surprised to find Anthony Goldstein sitting cross legged on his bed with a game board for Wizard's Chess. Smiling at his fellow Ravenclaw's surprise, Anthony said, “Welcome back, Harry. By my count you've missed quite a few of our daily matches. I hope you spent all that time with Madam Pomfrey thinkin' up new strategies.”

Harry had not been sorted into the house of the smart on a whim of the hat’s. Harry could tell what Goldstein was doing: trying to welcome him back, telling him it was good to see him, bring his life back down to normal, and all without sounding like some whiny Hufflepuff. Harry thought he liked the blonde boy all the more for it. The youngest Potter would end up winning the first game they played, but after Harry accused the pureblood of going easy on him, Anthony took the next two games with little effort and twice as fast as normal.

Ravenclaw's first class that afternoon was Potions with Hufflepuff and by the time it started Harry was grumbling about cheating chess players while Goldstein sported a wide grin on his face. All sense of joking was put to an end, however, when Professor Snape walked into the room. After taking roll call, the first thing the potions master did was fix Harry with a glare and ask him for the assigned paper on trolls. Knowing better than to say anything, the first year turned over the paper. Snape eyed it coolly and snatched the piece of parchment away. By the end of the lesson, Snape had asked the Potter child no less than five questions, three of which were second year questions, and Harry was proud to say he still got them right. The young Potter child knew he had redeemed himself in Professor Snape's eyes when the man nodded his head and began terrorizing Wayne Hopkins from Hufflepuff.

Ravenclaw's next class for the day was Charms with Gryffindor. Despite being in close proximity to the muggle-born Hermione Granger, and in the very class that had sent him to that abandoned classroom and into the path of a troll, the young Potter was still in a cheerful mood. As Goldstein and the other Ravenclaws took their seats, Harry made his way towards the small professor. Prefect Hilliard had mentioned at the start of the year that Professor Filius Flitwick might have been part elf, but it only occurred to the first year student how short the head of Ravenclaw house was when Harry met the professor face-to-face.

Because speaking bluntly, Professor Flitwick was _short_ ; significantly more so than the _eleven-year-old_ Harry Potter. Flitwick was also one of the most senior teachers at Hogwarts, apparently having even been teaching when the young Potter's parents had been going to school. It was sad to say, but Harry had never held much affection for his own head of house, but Professor Snape had said...

“Professor Flitwick, sir,” spoke a hesitant Harry Potter. “I was hoping I could say something, sir. Before class, that is.”

The diminutive professor gave a squeak of surprise before turning around to meet the shy and gentle emerald eyes of one of his students. Smiling kindly, and ruffling his mustache in the process, Professor Flitwick squeaked out, “It's no trouble at all, Mr. Potter; I always have time for one of my Ravenclaws. Say whatever you like.”

Feeling reassured now, Harry spoke confidently, “I just wanted to thank you, sir. When I woke up yesterday, Professor Snape said you were the one to find me after, well, you know. Madam Pomfrey refused to tell me how bad I really was, but it felt terrible. So thank you, professor. For saving me.”

The small professor's eyes seemed to widen slightly and Harry thought he saw tiny tears welling up, but after a quick blink of the eye it was gone. When the professor spoke, however, his voice was very high pitched and full of emotion, “Think nothing of it, Mr. Pot-- _Harry_ , I mean. Think nothing of it. I would do it for any student in this castle; doubly so for any member of Ravenclaw house.”

The Gryffindors arrived a short while later and Professor Flitwick spent the rest of class teaching them the Bluebell Flames Charm, a spell that creates harmless blue colored fire. After Harry – and Goldstein, and Granger, and a few others – managed to learn it fairly quickly, the head of Ravenclaw house beamed at the youngest Potter before saying, “For exceptional wand and spell work, I award Harry Potter twenty points.” When he said nothing about anyone else's work, it was pretty obvious the points were for the incident with the troll. Although embarrassed, the emerald eyed Ravenclaw would have been lying if he said he did not enjoy the little bit of recognition for what he went through. The glare Granger sent his way after class was an extra sweet bonus.

All and all, Harry was in such a good mood that he was not even dreading Transfiguration class, where he would have to put up with Professor McGonagall praising the muggle-born Granger. As they waited for the class doors to open, Harry was talking with Anthony about the practical uses of the Bluebell Flames Charm in a duel while Terry Boot and Michael Corner gushed over the upcoming Quidditch Cup game between Slytherin and Gryffindor coming up that weekend.

“No, no,” Anthony Goldstein was saying, “Even if it doesn't hurt people, it can set clothing on fire. It's pretty hard to duel if you're worried about your clothes burning away.”

“Only if they're not paying attention and use some kind of water spell,” countered Harry. “Tactically, it’s a waste of time when you could cast so many other spells in the meantime. Like a real fire spell, for example.”

Before Goldstein could reply, however, another voice broken in: “Harry Potter!”

Surprised and a little startled, Harry turned at the sound of his name and met the narrowed and muddy brown colored eyes of the last person he wanted to talk to: Hermione Granger. Vaguely, it occurred to him that he and the muggle-born in front of him had not directly communicated since the train ride before the Sorting Ceremony. This lack of direct interaction left him in more than a little confusion as to why she was here now, or why she looked so angry.

Her bushy hair was as unkempt as usual and her two front teeth were as large as Harry remembered them to be, but the anger in her features was new. The first year Ravenclaw could see the annoyed look on Fay Dunbar's face and the worried one on the Boy-Who-Lived's, both of whom stood behind their fellow Gryffindor. Deciding to avoid a fight if he could, the Ravenclaw boy spoke calmly, “Is there something I can help you with, Granger?”

Calm, it seemed, was not the correct approach because Granger's eyes seemed to narrow even more and splotches of red appeared on her cheeks. Combined with her teeth, she honestly looked like a rabid squirrel. “Professor Flitwick,” she huffed. “Should not be playing favorites. Twenty points for such a simple spell? What about everybody else, huh? I cast it just fine and he never even said anything to me.”

Which was what was really bothering her, the Ravenclaw Potter suspected; the fact _she_ was not getting enough attention. Sighing deeply, Harry said, “Look, you don't think I know all that?” From the look she was giving him, she did not. “I'm pretty sure everybody knows. That was the professor's way of rewarding points for the incident with the troll. Professor Snape had already taken points for it so he couldn't go against him because of it.”

“But you shouldn't have even been there!” yelled the muggle-born Granger. “Professor Dumbledore said every student should wait in their dormitories until everything was handled. Professor Flitwick shouldn't be giving out points for breaking the rules. It's not right!”

“None of which I heard, or knew about even,” countered Harry. “I was just practicing spells and while I was on my way to the Hallowe'en feast, the troll attacked me.”

“So you could have run away! You didn't have to try and fight it. Everyone's heard about the damage to the first floor corridor. Filch is still trying to put everything back together.”

“I tried to run, but it destroyed the stairway passage! I couldn't run!” snapped a now annoyed emerald eyed Ravenclaw. “It was trying to kill me and short of jumping out a window, I didn't have much choice.”

“He still shouldn't have given points for--”

“It almost ate me!” screamed Harry James Potter, glaring at the girl in front of him. “It almost ate me and I barely survived! If Professor Flitwick hadn’t found me when he did, I still might have. You weren't there; you weren't even in danger. I wish I could have been in my dormitory instead of nearly being killed, but I didn't have a choice. So instead of judging me, why don't you sod off and leave me alone!”

She no longer looked like a squirrel. Now she more closely resembled a fish: her mouth was wide open, her eyes wide, and her lips were trembling. She was not the only one, either. Dunbar and Longbottom had similar expressions and Michael Corner looked horrified. Goldstein and Terry Boot, however, looked very quiet. Over all, everyone seemed uncomfortable and no one wanted to be the first to break the silence; Harry included, who now regretted having said so much.

Hermione Granger, it seemed, was the only exception when she faintly whispered, “Y-you shouldn't use words like that.”

Harry actually felt a vein throb in his forehead; really, he did. First the muggle-born insults his head of house, then she yells at him, embarrasses him in front of half their peer group (the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor first years), and then starts complaining about his bad language? Before even realizing it, Harry's hand had moved to grasp his Blackthorn and Ash wand. Granger had seemed to miss the motion, but Anthony Goldstein at his side did not because he quickly placed a hand on his shoulder. When their eyes met, emerald green on sky blue, Harry nodded in resignation.

Thankfully, before the silence could get anymore awkward or tense, Professor McGonagall chose that moment to open her classroom doors. After both groups of first years had stiffly walked in and taken their seats, neither saying anything, the head of Gryffindor house began her lesson.

The subdued and stifling atmosphere lasted only as long as it took Professor McGonagall to explain that they were finally ready to move past the basics of Transfiguration and would actually be learning some spells. The first of which would be the Bird Conjuring Charm. “Now follow my movements,” spoke the head of Gryffindor house, her Scottish accent showing. She then made a motion with her wand in the barest trace of – what else? - a bird going from wing tip to wing tip. Then she said, “ _Avis_.” At once, a flock of at least twenty birds, all a different color of the rainbow, shot forth from her wand, accompanied by a loud bang and a trail of white smoke.

The entire class was awed and watched the tiny birds flap around the room. Even Harry was excited to finally be learning something from one of the most difficult fields of magic – Transfiguration and its sub-field of conjuration – that when a dark skinned boy from Gryffindor he knew only from the sorting ceremony as “Thomas, Dean,” remarked that “magicians in the Muggle world” probably use that spell often, the first year Ravenclaw's cheer would not yield.

Conjuring a flock of birds, however, seemed to be a little beyond most student’s reach and only the cacophony of banging noises sounded their attempt. Most were only rewarded with a few feathers and a little hearing loss, but after nearly an hour Harry could only stare at the solitary green feathered bird he had conjured that was now hopping around his desk and wonder where all its friends were.

With only five minutes left in class, Harry had resigned himself to practicing more later that night when, all the way from her position in the back of the class with Fay Dunbar and the Boy-Who-Lived, the muggle-born Granger announced, “I've done it, professor!” At once, the entire classroom turned and, sure enough, a flock of two or three birds fluttered around over the Gryffindor girl's desk.

“Well done, Miss Granger,” cheered Professor McGonagall, the pride plain in her eyes if not on her face. “Ten points to Gryffindor for a magnificent display of magic.”

Harry, resigned and annoyed at the same time, looked at the bird standing on his desk with feathers almost the same color as his eyes and sighed, saying, “There's just no respect for us, huh, little guy?”

The bird simply tilted its head to the side and gave a peaceful “tweet” in reply.

* * *

“She really gets to you, doesn't she?” asked Anthony Goldstein later that night. The Ravenclaw common room was a quiet hub of activity as various groups of school years were huddled together, flipping through their books and pieces of parchment with notes sprawled over them. Such an occurrence was not rare and, in fact, seemed to happen after every History of Magic lesson. Since very few people could actually stay awake for Professor Binn's entire lecture, come nightfall everyone was clamoring for the few scraps of notes taken. To keep it all civil, they formed study groups.

As one of the few who could stay awake (most of the time), Harry Potter's group consisted of Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, Michael Corner and, for some reason, Lisa Turpin. Currently, Boot and Corner were playing tug-of-war with Harry's history notes while Turpin and the Potter boy had their noses buried in their respective spell books, _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ for Turpin and _A Beginner Guide to Transfiguration by Emric Switch_ for Harry.

Anyone who cared to watch could see as the emerald eyed Potter skimmed line-for-line the text related to the Bird Conjuring Charm. He was also pointedly ignoring any of the halfblood Goldstein's comments. “Does it really bother you that much,” the blonde was asking. “That Granger is able to summon more tweety-birds than you?” That childish way of referring to it earned an emerald chilled glare, as he knew it would, but still Harry said nothing.

Sighing, Anthony said instead, “You could at least tell me to shut it. You don't have to keep it to yourself, you know? I might even let you win at Wizard's Chess if you tell me.”

The Ravenclaw Potter let out a rush of breathe that was caught somewhere between a snarl and a growl. Setting his book down on the table in front of him, Harry pulled off his square-framed glasses with one hand before pinching his nose with the other. After a few seconds of this, the raven haired boy sighed and said, “Look, Anthony, it's nothing; really. I'm just competitive and she's always acting like she's so much better than everyone.”

Anthony seemed to be nodding his head in understanding, but Lisa Turpin spared him a questioning look everyone missed before turning her attention back to her own book. After a lengthy bit of silence, the Goldstein boy said, “I can understand that, but just try and relax a bit more. Remember, it was studying that got you attacked by that troll.” His opinion expressed, Goldstein quickly snatched Harry's notes away from his other fellow Ravenclaw's and, ignoring Boot's and Corner's protests, started copying.

Suddenly feeling very tired, Harry stood up from the table, picked up his book, and announced he was heading to bed. When Anthony tried to hand back his History notes, the Potter boy waved him off with a faintly muttered, “tomorrow,” before he left the room.

In the hall on his way to his dormitory room, however, Harry was stopped by another voice: “You were lying to Goldstein back there.” His vibrant emerald eyes met the light brown ones of Lisa Turpin, who stood with her book tucked under arm and her face, curtained by her light brown hair, watched him with a mixture of amusement and haughty superiority.

“Exactly what was I lying about, Turpin?” he challenged as he crossed his arms. “I am competitive and I don't like losing, especially to Granger.”

“From what I've seen, that parts true, at least,” she conceded. “But that's not why you don't like Hermione Granger.”

“Enlighten me, then. Why don't I like her?”

“It's because she's a muggle-born,” said Turpin, who smirked when Harry's eyes widened at the accusation. “Or because she was raised by Muggles. Not sure which; to you, they might even be the same thing.”

Feeling very frustrated and even more tired now, Harry sighed, “I don't have anything against muggle-borns! Why does everyone keep saying that? Yes, I don't like Muggles, big deal, but I don't think I'm better than them.”

“Because she's Muggle raised, then. You don't trust Muggles, so you don't trust her because she wasn't raised around our kind; wizard kind, that is.” Judging from the smug look in her eyes, Turpin was very pleased with herself. The problem, however, was that she's wrong, and Harry said as much.

“Really, I'm wrong, huh?” asked Turpin rhetorically. “Then why do you hate Granger? Why'd you laugh when that Hufflepuff, Finch-Flechy or whatever, got knocked off his broom, or when I sent that pest, Kevin Entswhistle, to Madam Pomfrey with the Curse of the Boogies. All of them muggle-born, and you've only spoken to one of them (Granger) and, even then, only twice now.”

Nonplussed, Harry answered calmly, “Granger I already answered, Finch-Flechy was a show off, and Entwhistle was a prank anyway. No harm done in any case.”

“Then why won't Cornfoot talk to you anymore?” she asked, confusing the emerald eyed boy. “In the beginning of the year you two were the best of mates, but around the time I cursed Entwhistle you two split up. Now Cornfoot watches me like an offended Hippogriff and you whenever you're around a muggle-born. You should have seen him when Granger walked up to you; his hand was clenched around his wand and, let me give you a hint here, it wasn't out of house loyalty.”

Harry Potter blinked; that was all he really could do. Stephen, his first friend here at Hogwarts even if it was only for a short while, thought he would attack someone? The shocked and bewildered feeling in his stomach must have shown on his face, too, because Turpin added, “He's a git, mind you, but I think he found out about your feelings for Muggles and didn't take it well. Am I right?”

Harry, still startled, gave a weak nod of his head. Satisfied with herself, Turpin smiled and pressed on, “And you lied to Goldstein for fear he'd do that same, right?” Another weak nod was Harry's reply. Looking absolutely triumphant and smug now, she said, “Then you have to ask yourself this: do you want a friend you're gonna have to lie to in order to keep?” Without even waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and started to leave.

Surprised by her sudden departure, Harry called out, “Wait!” When she stopped and turned his way, he continued, “You don't have any friends either. I've seen it. So why do you care about me? What's you angle?”

Now she looked confused, “Whatever do you mean, Potter? Aren't we friends?” When Harry's eyes widened comically, she laughed and said, “Don't be so full of yourself, Potter. I don't have friends; I don't need them, and as far as my angle with you is concerned I have only this to say:--” She paused for dramatic affect alone, Harry was sure. “It's fun.”

With a truly dumb-founded expression on his face, Lisa Turpin left the youngest Potter gaping at her retreating back with a smirk on her face and a light skip in her step. By the time he was climbing into bed, Harry Potter was convinced the Turpin girl was absolutely mad. He still could not keep what she said from his mind, however. First the sorting hat, then Stephen, and now Turpin? Certainly he, Harry James Potter, was not prejudice against muggle-borns, right? The hat misunderstood, Stephen is a git, and Turpin was just plain mad, right? Right?

Either way, sleep would not come easy to him that night. Best to just put it out of his mind, anyway.

* * *

The morning feast in the Great Hall the next morning was a quiet affair for the young Harry James Potter. As the first feast he had shown up for since the troll incident, which now seemed like a life-time ago, Anthony Goldstein made it his personal mission to double the naturally thin Potter's weight with every piece of bacon he could convince the other Ravcanclaw boys to give up. When the fifth year Penelope Clearwater found out, the female prefect for Ravenclaw got at least one piece from each of the girls with the exception of Lisa Turpin, who smirked in Harry's direction as she ate her’s.

Altogether, Harry did not think he had ever been more embarrassed as he sat behind a pile of bacon. He would like to have been reading up on some more difficult spells, learning new spells, _something_ , but he had been having trouble remembering where he had left his copy of Miranda Goshawk's _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ , having last seen it the night he fought the troll.

“I can't believe it's almost time for Quidditch to start,” Terry Boot was saying on Harry's left. “It feels like we only just got here, but the game's this Saturday.”

“The first game is between Gryffindor and Slytherin, too,” added Michael Corner. “Should be a good match.”

“Wait,” interrupted Mandy Brocklehurst, the black haired and blue eyed Ravenclaw girl. “I thought Slytherin has been winning the House Cup for nearly ten years or something. Do you really think Gryffindor has a chance?”

“They've only been winning for six,” corrected Boot. ”And if Ravenclaw is going to have any chance of winning the cup, we need to cheer on Gryffindor.”

Harry, having grown tired of all the Quidditch talk, pushed himself up from the table. Goldstein and Clearwater, of course, were the first to notice the movement. “Is something wrong, Harry?” asked the almost unbearably nice older girl. “You've barely touched your bacon.”

The pile of bacon on Harry's plate still numbered in the late teens. Feeling ill at the thought of eating any more bacon – perhaps ever - the emerald eyed boy said, “No, I'm good. Thanks. I've just misplaced my book and I was wanting to go over some spells.”

Clearwater frowned at his response. “If you're sure,” she spoke hesitantly. “Just be careful, okay?” In Harry’s opinion, Penelope Clearwater was an excellent choice for prefect. Smiling at the older girl, he nodded his head before running back to the Ravenclaw dormitories.

Hours later, after having searched not only his room but the common room as well, Harry was convinced the troll must have destroyed his text book and he would have to ask his mother for another copy during his weekly letter back home. It was in that resigned state of mind that Harry took his usual place in-between Anthony and Boot for Defense Against the Dart Arts.

“In l-light of recent e-events,” began Professor Quirrell in his typical stutter-ridden voice. “Professor D-dumbledor-re has re-requested that I t-teach a p-particular spell.“ Immediately, everyone in the room, both Ravcenclaw and Slytherin, gave the man their undivided attention. Harry, too, was interested because Professor Quirrell had not taught them any spells beside the Boogies Curse.

Clearly nervous, the turban wearing professor pulled out his wand and, with a quiver on his lips, said, “F- _fumos_!” At once, a thick black smoke poured from his wand and within seconds the smoke had spread out, leaving the defense teacher veiled in a black cloud of smoke.

“What a let down,” complained Vincent Crabbe of Slytherin, a deep frown clear on his big face. “I was hoping for something useful. What good's a cloud going to do?”

“It's not just a cloud,” explained Draco Malfloy with a slap upside the other boy's head. “It's a smoke screen!”

“Correct, M-mister M-malfoy; five points to Sly-slytherin,” echoed the voice of Professor Quirrell from within the smoke. A second latter and the smoke screen was wiped away. Pocketing his wand, Quirrell said, “It's called the S-smokesc-creen Sp-spell! It’s m-meant for es-escape from a d-deadly enemy.” 

“But can also be used for duels,” added Harry. From his side, Goldstein smiled in agreement.

Professor Quirrell then demonstrated the wand movements (a spiral motion) and stressed the syllables as best he could with his stutter. It was not a complicated spell, however, and after only half the class time there were already scattered clumps of black smoke all over the classroom spread out like little patches of swamp gas. Harry, his own shroud of black smoke hanging over head, could only smile as he pointed out the flaws in Terry Boot's wand movements while Goldstein did the same for Michael Corner.

By the time class was finally dismissed there were only a few in each house who had not already mastered the simple charm. As he put away his books, Harry could only shake his head as Boot and Corner retreated from the room, the two already discussing the Gryffindor-Slytherin game coming up. Goldstein seemed equally exasperated, but was waiting patiently for Harry by the door. Just as he had finished and was about to join the blonde, however, Professor Quirrell called out, “M-mister P-potter, please s-stay behind.”

Shaking his head, the emerald eyed Potter waved the other Ravenclaw student on before turning to the Hogwarts defense professor. Quinirus Quirrell seemed paler than usual today, Harry noted; his eyes seemed to be bright red when compared to his chalky white complexion.

“Are you feeling alright, professor?” Harry found himself asking as he came to stop in front of the teacher's desk.

Clearly surprised, Professor Quirrell seemed to flinch before saying, “Q-quite al-alright, Mi-mister P-Potter. Th-though I should be asking y-you that question.”

“I'm fine, sir,” admitted Harry, blushing slightly. “Madam Pomfrey is really good at her job. You can't even tell I've ever met a troll now.”

“Th-that's a re-relief,” sighed Quirrell. “Sp-speaking of your bout with a t-troll, I have something of y-yours.” Binding over, Professor Quirrell opened one of the draws in his desk before pulling out a book and presenting it cover first: _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ , by Miranda Goshawk.

With a budding hope, the youngest Potter took hold of the book and, flipping open the cover read aloud, “Property of Harry James Potter.” Smiling now, Harry looked towards the turban wearing professor. “Thank you, sir, but how'd you--”

“After your in-incident, the headmaster re-requested that the t-teachers search for c-clues to explain how the troll f-found its way into the c-castle. During my search, I f-found this.” When Harry nodded his head in understanding, the older man added, “I saw what you were working on.”

When the young Ravenclaw began turning red again, Quirrell spared him a weak smile before saying, “I had trouble in my youth, too. The first time I lost all my hair I was a little older than you are now and I was practicing the Fire-Making Charm myself. Consider yourself lucky you only burnt an empty classroom.” Smiling at the tale, Harry had to force himself to remember that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had once been a first year Ravenclaw just like him. Seeing his student's smile, Quirrell said, “You should be proud of your accomplishment; that particular spell is not even taught until much later in the year, and your Severing Charm was especially skillful.”

“I'm nothing special,” said Harry, his face burning from embarrassment and his chest swelling in pride. “I just read more than most. My dad always complains about how hard it is to find me without my nose in a book.”

“He must be proud of you then,” remarked Professor Quirrell.

“Not really,” admitted a now frowning Harry. “My dad wishes I was obsessed with Quidditch like he was when he was my age. My mum's real proud, though. Everyone says I'm just like she was.”

“So you should be. Magic should be cultivated, even at a very young age. I sometimes wonder if Hogwarts should begin sooner.” Frowning slightly, Quirrell shook his head before continuing, “Never mind my musing. I just wanted to give you that and see how you were doing.”

“I'm fine, professor,” said Harry. “And thanks again for the book.”

“My pleasure,” responded Quirrell and, with a smile, he added, “I know a book you might be interested in, but it might take me a few days to find a copy. Come see me after the Quidditch game on Saturday and I should have it by then.”

With a wide grin, Harry said, “Thank you, professor. I'll be sure to come by. Have a good day, sir.”

Harry met Goldstein in the Ravenclaw common room a short time later, his mood considerably improved now, and when Terry Boot and Michael Corner once again began talking about the upcoming Gryffindor-Slytherin game, Harry, too, now had a reason to be just as anxious for Saturday.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	8. Week of Quidditch

In Harry James Potter’s opinion, the closer and closer Saturday came to be, the more it seemed everyone at Hogwarts had lost their minds. As early as Tuesday, entire groups of students could be seen carrying around tiny flags in support of their chosen team playing in the upcoming game (Gryffindor or Slytherin, though significantly more for the former). Despite being outnumbered, however, the Slytherin team's fans seemed to be in high spirits for their match against their long hated rivals, Gryffindor, and showed absolute faith that their house would win; an opinion not entirely their own. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff supporters of Gryffindor openly admitted to only wanting Slytherin to finally lose their six year winning-streak, but would easily confess their doubts that Gryffindor was the house to finally do it.

After Oliver Wood, a fifth year student and the Gryffindor team's captain, booked the Quidditch pitch one especially cold afternoon, even the hopeful Terry Boot, Michael Corner, and half the rest of the school came back with depressed looks on their faces.

“Their Seeker is just terrible,” complained Boot over breakfast the following morning. “A second year; Cormac McLaggen is his name. He spent more time yelling at the Beaters than looking for the Golden Snitch.”

Harry later learned that same night from the mischievous Ravenclaw second year, Eddie Carmichael, that the Slytherin team's Keeper, Miles Bletchley, had a betting pool going on how many goals the Gryffindor team would be able to score before Slytherin caught the Snitch. “Smart galleons on none,” Carmichael had assured while accepting wagers from the upper years. When the Ravenclaw prefect, Robert Hilliard, placed his bet (“Gryffindor will make at least one goal,” he declared boldly), Penelope Clearwater threatened to report him to Professor Flitwick.

Harry and Anthony Goldstein watched the ensuing fight over their nightly game of Wizard's Chess and at about the time the halfblood Goldstein boy had checked Harry's king piece, Carmichael was sporting antlers thanks to Hilliard's use of the Antler Jinx (' _Anteoculatia,_ ' Harry mentally supplied) for insulting Clearwater.

As far as Harry was concerned, Saturday could not come fast enough, but unlike everyone else, it was not because of Quidditch; he had never really been a fan, anyway. The young Potter could still remember the training broom his god-father, Sirius Blak, had gotten for him when he was seven. His mother had quickly confiscated it, yelled at Sirius, and then spent the next two hours detailing all the ways broom flying and Quidditch could be dangerous. More to keep his mother happy – and quiet - than anything else, Harry had avoided Quidditch ever since.

So again, it was not Quidditch that had the emerald eyed Potter anxious. Harry still had not forgotten Professor Quirrell's promise. Although he was not well respected amongst the student body, or even the teachers, Harry rather liked the stutter afflicted Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. The turban wearing man's advice on visualization and intent had helped the studious Ravenclaw tremendously. So it was with a sense of fondness that the young Ravenclaw pondered what type of book his former Ravenclaw-fellow turned teacher had for him.

“You're unusually distracted tonight, Mr. Potter,” remarked Professor Sinistra one night beneath the full moon. Astronomy class had never been one of Harry's favorites, but the dark skinned astronomy teacher was a stern and very strict woman. The woman continued speaking, “Don't tell me you're excited about Quidditch, too?”

“No, ma'am. Just trying to stay warm,” answered Harry between chattering teeth. It was November already and Hogwarts nights were usually chilly all year round, but even on the cusp of winter Professor Sinistra insisted that the best time to star gaze was at midnight. Harry, who was bundled in three coats over his robes and was still cold, disagreed and had almost given up on wiping the fog from his telescope and was more concerned with keeping his Bluebell Flames charm going.

“This is so amazing!” gushed Kevin Entswhistle from behind his own telescope. As the only first year muggle-born in Ravenclaw, Entswhistle had taken to making a scene nearly every astronomy lesson comparing Muggle telescopes to their wizarding counterparts. Not-whispering to his partner, Stephan Cornfoot, Entswhistle was saying, “My dad has a telescope, but you can barely see anything. These magic ones, though; they're wicked! I can actually see inside the craters on the moon!”

“I think that is quite enough, Mr. Entswhistle,” sighed the frustrated Professor Sinistra, who herself came from a wizarding family and actually found the muggle-born's comparisons insulting. Likewise, the Slytherins – with whom they shared the class – were sending the boy scathing looks. Entswhistle was oblivious to the latter, but blushed and apologized to the former.

Having had to listen to countless similar exchanges since the start of term, Harry likely would have joined the Slytherins, but held back. “Muggle telescopes must be boring,” said Harry instead, speaking to his own partner, Anthony Goldstein. “If you cannot even see the moon, what's the point? To just look at the sky?” Goldstein nodded absently as he wiped the fog off his own telescope's lens, but said nothing and the emerald eyed first year could not help but think of Lisa Turpin's words from a few days ago about lying to the blonde haired halfblood.

Without meaning to, Harry found his eyes searching out for the girl in question. The brown haired Ravenclaw girl was paired with Padma Patil, but they did not seem to be getting along if the intense frowns they were both sporting was any indication. After catching his wondering eyes, though, Turpin's eyebrows raised in challenge. The young Potter boy quickly looked away.

On Friday, the day before the game, Harry was well and truly sick of hearing about Quidditch. Carmichael's betting pool had at least a Knut in it from every Ravenclaw student with an allowance and Boot and Corner had to be repeating themselves by now with their constant talk of the upcoming game. It was a testament to how tired of it all Harry was that he decided to follow Madam Pomfrey's orders to come in for a follow up to his encounter with the troll; something he had avoided doing ever since.

Leaving Goldstein behind to work on the Charms essay Professor Flitwick had assigned about the various uses of the Mending Charm ( _Reparo_ ), Harry made his way for the hospital wing. Since it was nearly time for curfew to begin, the halls of Hogwarts school held little in the way of conscious life; even the hundreds of portraits along the walls were filled with drowsy and sleeping witches and wizards of the past. The late hour also meant no prowling Filch or his cat so Harry was free to sprint down the halls. In no time, the youngest Potter managed to work his way through the castle until he came across the door to the hospital wing. Surprisingly, the door was slightly open and as the young Ravenclaw boy approached, he could hear faint whispering, “Really, Severus, it is getting terribly late.”

A quick glance inside through the opened door revealed the back of a figure cloaked in dark robes, faintly illuminated by the starry sky outside and the flickering torches on the walls. Regardless, Harry had no trouble recognizing the form of Professor Severus Snape. “Yet you know why I've come, don't you?” asked Snape.

There was another figure on the other side of the room, opposite the potions master: Madam Pomfrey. The Hogwarts hospital wing's elderly matron seemed startled and her eyes were shaking. “This... this isn't about... _You know?_ What Albus said after the Sorting Ceremony, is it?”

“I'm afraid it is,” said Snape coolly. “His fears were proven true the night Mr. Potter found himself in your care.”

“B-but I don't know anything about all this!” cried Madam Pomfrey. “I don't even know what's down there!”

“The fewer that do, the better,” the head of Slytherin house whispered. Without warning, Professor Snape quickly crossed the room and bent down to say something in Pomfrey's ear. Whatever it was, Harry could not hear it, but the hospital matron's face turned white. “Avoid mentioning our little talk to anybody,” spoke Snape as he stepped away.

Madam Pomfrey nodded vigorously, her face still white. Snape then turned to go, but briefly winced when one of his feet pressed fully on the floor. Harry barely caught the less-than-a-second expression, but Pomfrey seemed to have no trouble. “I have potions that could help with that, Severus,” said Pomfrey. “Scratches from Cerberus dogs can be nasty to treat.”

Professor Snape spared her a dull look; when he spoke, it was dry, “I think I can manage a few potions on my own. Good night.” With a slight nod of the head, he was off. Harry was nearly struck by the door when the potions master came through, but managed to jump back just in time. “Mr. Potter,” hissed Snape upon seeing him. “I believe it's almost curfew.”

“Nearly, sir,” agreed Harry, his eyes wide in fear. “But Madam Pomfrey said I should come by for a checkup.” Snape's eyes drilled into Harry's own, but after a moment the man gave a curt nod before storming off. However, all throughout the meticulous poking and prodding from Madam Pomfrey’s wand that followed, the young Ravenclaw's mind was hard at work.

There was only one thing all that strange about Headmaster Dumbledore's speech following the sorting: the third floor corridor. More importantly, however, was that whatever the headmaster was hiding was valuable enough to bother with putting a three headed Cerberus dog in a school and that someone had released a Mountain Troll into the school as part of a plot to get at it.

Even an hour later, when Harry was cleared by Madam Pomfrey and released back to his dormitories, the young Potter found his thoughts would not rest. “Whoever tried to get at what Professor Snape is protecting nearly killed me with that troll,” reasoned Harry and, for some reason, his thoughts shifted back to Professor Quirrell and his words about intent and his practice with the Fire Making Spell. As sleep finally claimed him, the young Ravenclaw wondered how big a flame he could make with his thoughts right now. In his mind, the wall of fire was pretty high.

* * *

Normally, mornings in the Ravenclaw dormitories was a subdued affair. Since the house of wisdom and intelligence was significantly less rowdy than, for example, the house of brave and reckless Gryffindor, on most days each student would awaken at their own time; some were early risers, some would wait until the last possible moment. Harry James Potter liked to be in the middle, but on the first Saturday in November none of that seemed to matter for anyone.

Terry Boot, one of Harry's dorm mates and an avid fan of sleeping in, was one of the first awake, even beating the sun. Boot’s excitement for the first Quidditch game of the year that afternoon would not let him rest and he seemed to think no one else should either. The first words out of the brown haired boy's mouth was a thrilled (and loud), “Finally!” However, since Boot shared his room with Harry and Stephen Cornfoot, the next to awaken was the emerald eyed Potter, followed shortly by Cornfoot. Less than ten minutes later, Michael Corner had burst into the room and joined Boot in waking up the rest of the house and only stopped after Eddie Carmichael threatened to transfigure them into pin cushions.

An hour later found the students of Ravenclaw house at their assigned table in the Great Hall. The air was filled with the scent of freshly fried sausages and the excited murmurs of the student body as they shared their predictions for the upcoming game.

“Slytherin is going to win, no question,” was first year Ravenclaw Isobel MacDougal's opinion, but her twin sister, Morag, supported Gryffindor.

“Betting pool favors Slytherin,” noted Eddie Carmichael with a wide grin. “If Gryffindor pulls off a win, I'll be rich!”

Cormac McLaggen, the new Seeker for the Gryffindor team, boasted, “Just watch me! I'll catch that Snitch before those slimy snakes even score a single point!” Even his own team-mates gave him skeptical looks and the Gryffindor captain, Oliver Wood, seemed close to a panic attack, or attacking McLaggen; whichever came first.

“Who do you think's going to win, Harry?” asked Anthony Goldstein from his side.

Sparing the other halfblood boy a short glance, Harry stabbed at a piece of sausage before saying, “Probably Slytherin. They've been winning for the past six years, right? I don't see McLaggen putting a stop to that kind of record.” His remarks riled up the pro-Gryffindor fans in Ravenclaw, but the youngest Potter ignored them all and divided his thoughts on thinking about what Professor Snape had said last night and what Professor Quirrell might show him after the game.

No matter what Harry thought, or what was on his mind, the remainder of the morning feast passed by rather quickly and before Harry could even try to think up an excuse to get out of it, Anthony had already seized his forearm and all but dragged him away. Their destination was, of course, the Quidditch pitch and they were certainly not alone; not only Ravenclaw, but every house seemed to be turning out in mass for the first game of the season.

The weather itself seemed to be in high spirits for the game because the normally chilly November winds this high in the mountains gave way to a bright and warming sun by early noon. There were still more than a few students carrying around their Bluebell Flames, though; Harry included. Despite the Potter boy's protestations and insistence on having more class work to finish (“Yeah right,” sounded Boot skeptically. “We all know you've finished it already.”), Anthony refused to let go of his arm until the emerald eyed boy swore he would not run away.

So sworn, the halfblood Goldstein released his arm and fell in step at his side. Briefly, Harry considered going back on his word and running anyway, but the jubilant crowd was more likely to trample him than let him pass. Resigned, Harry followed the crowd of students into the stands surrounding the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch.

Harry could still remember the stories his god-father, Sirius, would tell him about playing Quidditch. Although Sirius had never played – something about not being a “team player” or some such -  but the outcast of the Black family told wild tales about the exploits of Harry's own father, James, and his school days playing for Gryffindor as a Chaser. The Potter boy's mother, Lily, had never approved of the stories, claiming it promoted “reckless and just plain stupid” tendencies, but Sirius had practically gushed when he described the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts.

As with many things related to the favored sports of wizard-kind world wide – with the exception of those Yanks and their “Quopot” - Harry found it underwhelming. The stands were brightly colored in greens and reds to support the two teams playing with the colors layered throughout the stands while the towers followed a similar fashion, but the stands and pitch themselves were nothing special. Even as Terry Boot led the procession of Ravenclaw first years into the stands, amidst the cheers and conversations of those already seated, Harry was regretting not running.

In the highest observer’s seats, a few of the professors could be seen planning to watch the game. The emerald eyed boy could easily spot Professor Snape here, no doubt to quietly support his own house of Slytherin, and even Pomona Sprout of Hufflepuff could be spotted. Professor Flitwick was probably in the stands, too, but Harry could not see the short Charms teacher. The one that really caught Harry's attention, however, was Professor Quirrell, who was seated behind Snape. The sight of the stutter-ridden professor, and the memory of what he had promised after the game, reminded the young boy why he did not want to be here.

“What do you have against Quidditch, Harry?” asked Anthony, when the Ravenclaw first years were finally seated in one of the middle rows. Gesturing to a screaming Boot, he added, “I'm not as... passionate about it as other people, either, but you seem to really not like it.”

“It was just the way I was raised,” answered the young Potter, grimacing when every Gryffindor put their house's avatar to shame and roared as their team walked out onto the pitch. “My mum sort of drilled it in to me that Quidditch was for brutes. The noise doesn't help, either.”

After the Slytherin team walked onto the pitch, the referee and Hogwarts flying instructor, Madam Hooch, called out, “Now I want a nice fair game, all of you,” she seemed to be sending the Slytherin team's captain a rather meaningful look here. With no further delays, and at Hooch's behest, the two teams climbed up on their brooms and the starting whistle was blown.

At once, the fifteen total Quidditch players shot into the air so fast a simple blink was all it would have taken to lose them entirely. Harry's eyes were able to follow the zipping motions the brooms made, but his neck was not happy about it.

“And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor,” announced the amplified voice of the game's narrator, a Gryffindor third year by the name of Lee Jordan. It was only his first year commentating, but his bias was obvious when he added, “What an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too--”

“JORDAN!” screamed an enraged Professor McGonagall, who was supervising the boy's commentary.

“Sorry, professor,” said Jordan, but everyone could tell he was lying.

Scoffing at the ridiculous commentary, Harry quickly tuned the Gryffindor boy out and kept his eyes on the game instead. Gryffindor Chasers Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet passed the Quaffle a few times before losing it to the Slytherin team's captain, Marcus Flint. The Quaffle changed teams a couple times before it finally rested again in Johnson's possession and the black Gryffindor girl made a move towards the goal posts on the Slytherin side before taking a shot that Slytherin team's Keeper, Miles Bletchley, dived to catch, but failed to.

“Gryffindor scores!” cheered Lee Jordan, and his exclamation was echoed across the stands. Everybody except the Slytherins themselves seemed to be cheering; all of them ready to see the house of ambition’s six year winning-streak come to an end.

Eddie Carmichael, however, cheered for an entirely different reason. Laughing happily, he said smugly, “I can't tell you how much gold I just won.” He was no doubt referring to Bletchley’s claims of never letting a single Gryffindor score all game.

Marcus Belby, who was also a second year Ravenclaw, was the first to figure out something. “Wait a second,” he exclaimed in realization. “I though you said the best bet was that Gryffindor wasn't going to score! How'd you win, then?”

“I just said that to drive up the odds,” Carmichael revealed with a smirk. Belby could only gape in response. Harry actually had to stifle a laugh at the two's antics, but his attention was suddenly pulled back into the game:

“Slytherin in possession,” narrated Jordan. “Chaser Puecy ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the-- Wait a moment! Was that the Snitch!” Adrian Puecy whirled around in an attempt to catch sight of the golden colored blur that shot passed his ear.

The Slytherin team's Seeker, Terence Higgs, was already diving to catch it while his Gryffindor counterpart was still looking around in confusion. When Cormac McLaggen finally did find the Golden Snitch, he was off, but was stopped short by two Bludgers from Slytherin team. The Slytherin Beaters high-fived as McLaggen did a tail spin, barely righting himself before he hit the ground. Thankfully - for Gryffindor, that is - Higgs had lost the Snitch, too.

Still, Slytherin had managed to recover the Quaffle despite Puecy's slip up and the boy redeemed himself by scoring; the ball soaring past a struggling Gryffindor captain, Oliver Wood. The house of cunning cheered Puecy's name for tying the game up: 10-10. When Wood launched the next Quaffle, Slytherin Chaser Marcus Flint was quick to put his team into the lead with a fast play, scoring with the Quaffle again and “accidentally” tipping Wood's broom as he passed.

“Well, now Slytherin is winning,” sighed Boot in resignation.

“Game's not over yet!” yelled Mandy Brocklehurst.

As it turned out, the game really was over. Gryffindor managed to score one more time, but only after Slytherin had three more. When Slytherin Seeker Higgs finally found the Snitch, he raced for it unopposed; McLaggen having been beaten several times with Bludgers and a few more “accidental” contact violations. By the time Higgs caught the Golden Snitch, ending the game, the score was 190-20 in favor of Slytherin.

Slytherin house exploded into applause and cheers; the thundering echo of “One more year! One more year!” shook the stands. Gryffindor looked as though it was in mourning and Oliver Wood had to be held back from cursing McLaggen as the Weasley twins took hold of an arm each. Hufflepuff was just shaking their head in resignation, but still managed to politely (although half-heatedly) clap.

“Maybe Ravenclaw can beat 'em this year, eh?” offered Michael Corner hopefully.

No one else seemed very optimistic. In fact, nearly every Ravenclaw fan was unusually solemn. Even Carmichael looked a little down. “I was hoping Gryffindor could pull it off,” the second year lamented. When Belby gave him a strange look, he added, “Nearly everyone bet on Slytherin! If Gryffindor had won, I could have cleared out a goblin with that kind of gold!”

It did not take long for everyone to begin vacating the pitch. When Harry noticed the professors, and more importantly Professor Quirrell, leaving their seats and making their way back towards the castle, Harry was on his feet in an instant. “Am I free to go yet?” asked a jittery Harry Potter, his eyes darting between Anthony and the top of Quirrell's turban.

Anthony Goldstein let out a long suffering sigh, but nodded his head, saying, “What are you plotting now? Should I remind you that the last time you went off for some self-study, you were attacked by a troll?”

“Shouldn't be anything like that,” answered Harry easily. “I just got a lead on a book that might be interesting.” Goldstein's eyes, like any respectable Ravenclaw's would, lit up at the mention of a new book. “If it's any good, I'll be sure to share with you.”

“We don't have any classes today,” reminded Anthony. “But just make sure you're back in the common rooms before the feast tonight.”

“No problem there!” agreed the young Potter boy. Without another word, he was off. Although Harry would have liked to have been able to catch up to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor before he reached the castle, the crowd of students leaving the game quickly put a stop to that thought. By the time Harry managed to work his way past everyone, the professors had already made their way inside.

Knowing he would now have to search out the professor in his classroom, Harry followed the ground floor corridor path, cut through the Middle Courtyard, and took a short path down one of the adjacent hallways. While faintly listening to the growing level of noise coming from behind him – a sign that the other students were heading this way to enjoy the courtyard – Harry made his way down the hall until he found his destination: Professor Quirrell's Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

His excitement bubbling, Harry swiftly knocked on the door, calling out, “Professor! I'm here, sir!” When there was no response, the Ravenclaw first year knocked again. “Sir, it's me, Harry! Harry Potter!” A few seconds passed and just as Harry was about to knock again, the heavy wooden door slide open. Smiling now, Harry stepped inside as the door closed behind him. Quirrell's classroom was the same as it always was: a wide open room with four stone pillars and a raised dais in the center with a podium from which to give lectures. Also as was usual, Professor Quirrell stood behind his podium.

Making his way towards the center of the room, the emerald eyed boy spoke, “Professor, I came as you asked.” Quirrell stared blankly at his podium, his image motionless. Slightly concerned now, Harry said, “Sir, are you feeling well? Do you want me to go get Madam Pomfrey?”

Quirrell made no reply and just as Harry was about to make good on his offer to go find the hospital matron, the turban wearing professor let out a gasp. In the empty – save two people – room, the gasp sounded louder than it normally would have. Harry watched as Quirrell released hoarse and ragged sounding breathes. “Sir,” began Harry hesitantly. “Are you feeling alright?”

It was only then that the former Ravenclaw seemed to take note of his student's presence as the professor's pale blue eyes started dancing around the room before meeting Harry's own emerald ones. The man's normally pale complexion seemed even more so now and his cheeks looked to be a little shallower, as though his face was shrinking in on itself. All this combined with the sheen of sweat on his face only affirmed his condition in Harry's mind: Quirinus Quirrell was ill.

“Are you okay, professor?” Harry asked again. “You don't look so good.”

Quirrell's eyes widened momentarily before they relaxed again. Shaking his head, the Defense professor said, “N-no, I'm f-f-fine, Mr. P-potter.” With a wave of the man's wand, the sheen of sweat was gone and after another wave the man drained a glass of conjured water. “I've been under a l-lot of p-pressure lately. It g-gets to me some t-times.” Another wave of his wand and the professor drained another glass of clear water. It must have helped because he was looking much better now.

Accepting the teacher's answer, and anxious to get the subject away from the man's current state, Harry instead focused his attention on the glass still in Quirrell's hand. “I thought you couldn't conjure food or drink, sir?” he asked in confusion. “I read somewhere that it's impossible.”

Professor Quirrell's eye brows rose slightly, but there was an amused smile to his trembling lips. “You're referring to Gamp's laws on the principle exceptions to elemental transfiguration,” said Quirrell, his throat seemingly dry despite the ingested water. “Ordinarily you'd be right, but it is possible to summon food or drink and Hogwarts has a rather dedicated little army of house-elves to handle any requests.”

“Hogwarts has house-elves?” asked a surprised Harry. This fact is not mentioned in any of Harry's textbooks, but the image of hundreds of invisible elves constantly moving around, cleaning, cooking, and carrying everything that came to mind certainly explained quite a bit. “They must be who all makes breakfast and dinner every day, and who carried our drunks to the house dormitories after the sorting.”

“Correct, Mr. Potter,” confirmed a smiling Professor Quirrell. “But I don't think you came here for a lesson on house-elves, am I right?”

Shyly scratching the back of his head, the young Potter answered, “No, sir, it isn't. Early in the week you mentioned a book I might enjoy reading.”

The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor nodded in confirmation, saying, “Yes, I did, didn't I?” Without waiting for a reply, the purple clothed man started his way towards the teacher's desk on the other side of the room.

“You and I are very similar, Mr. Potter,” remarked Quirrell as he began rummaging through the desk, seemingly searching for something. “Like you, I was sorted into Ravenclaw. We have similar parentage, too; half-bloods, the both of us. We both also have rather inquisitive minds.” Quirrell stopped here and pulled out a book from his desk. Having spent the past week imagining the type of book the defense professor might show him, Harry was rather disappointed by the book's simple solid black cover and pristine white pages; it could not possibly have been more than a few years old; ten or fifteen at the most.

“More importantly, Harry,” said Quirinus Quirrell. “We are both passionate about magic.” The turban wearing man held up the book, showing its cover to the first year before him and Harry was surprised to realize that it had no markings. “You know what an Unspeakable is, right, Harry?”

At little confused by the seemingly unrelated question, Harry answered, “They work for the Ministry of Magic, right?” At Quirrell's nod, he continued, “My mum mentioned them once. Nobody knows what they do, but everybody thinks it has something to do with really advanced magic.”

“Right on all accounts,” praised Quirrell before waving the book around a little. “The reason I ask is because this book, although rather recent, was written by a former Unspeakable.”

Harry's eyes went from passively dismissive of the book to blatant interest in an instant, but something bothered him about that piece of information. “Sir,” he asked almost reluctantly. “Are you sure you want me reading that? If it was written by an Unspeakable it might be a little over my head. I'm only a first year.” It might have hurt his pride to admit it, but Harry was still only eleven. There was a lot of magic he just was not ready to learn yet.

“Rest easy, Harry,” said Quirrell dismissively. “This book has little actual magic in it. It is mostly an account of events, told from the author's perspective, and usually relates to a rather singular subject: the nature of magic.”

The nature of magic? What did that mean? “I've never read a book like that, sir,” admitted Harry. “But I don't understand something, professor. Why me? If it's just a book on magical theory, why not share it in class?”

“Because we're similar, young Harry,” Quirrell said again. “I see much of myself in you, and I also see much of what I would like to have been at your age, too.”

“Forgive me if this sounds rude, sir,” prefaced Harry. “But what does that mean?”

Quirrell let out a dry chuckle and smiled, but there was something calculating in his eyes as he said, “I was a timid young boy in my youth. Filled with notions of good and evil, I saw everyone around me in a naive light and was determined to make myself stand out. Sadly, I was not as gifted as you are. I could never have survived a mountain troll in my first year, like you did.” When Harry moved to interrupt, Quirrell shook his head and frowned. “You are special, Harry, and more mature than most in my class, but more than that, however. You know what death is.”

Something must have shown on the young Potter's face that was frighteningly close to alarm because Quiriunus Quirrell began speaking in soft and calming tones, “You don't need to worry, Harry. Any truly great wizard has faced death and lived to tell the tale. You not only faced death, but defeated it. You lived where others would not have and that makes you special.”

“Like the Boy-Who-Lived?” said Harry in a daze, his mind scrambling to figure out what this professor was even talking about. Because of his confusion, Harry missed the momentary flash of red that crossed Quirrell’s pale blue eyes, but it was gone in less than a second.

“Neville Longbottom, you mean?” asked Quirrell unnecessarily. “I can't say anything about that young boy because no one knows how he lived, but I can say something about you, Harry.” The black haired boy before him nodded, a silence plea for the professor to continue. “You have the potential to be a powerful wizard; this I believe.”

Harry could actually feel the heat coming from his face his blush was so strong. “B-but, sir, I'm just--” His breathe was coming out sharply now. “I'm just a first year, professor.”

“You have plenty of time to grow,” agreed Quirinus Quirrell with a kind smile. “That is why I wanted to share this book with you. I think it'll help you on your path to being a powerful wizard; someone worthy of attention, of respect.” The defense professor held up the black bound book to Harry's limp arms and the eleven-year-old was embarrassed when he took hold of it with sweaty palms. Before he could think of anything to say, Harry had already flipped open the book and was surprised to see the author's name was not written inside as was usual. He decided to voice his confusion.

“This book was never officially printed, you see,” explained Quirrell. “Because of the sensitive nature of the author.”

This sufficed enough to snap Harry out of his daze. Fixing the professor with a curious expression, Harry asked, “What sort of nature? Who is the author?”

“Tell me, Harry,” began Quirinus Quirrell carefully. “Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Augustus Rookwood?” Emerald eyes blinked in confusion at the name. Seeing the young Ravenclaw’s confused expression, Quirrell continued, “Rookwood was an Unspeakable working for the Ministry of Magic nearly ten years ago now. Rookwood was an accomplished wizard and, as an Unspeakable, worked in the aptly named 'Department of Mysteries’.”

His eyes widening in shock, Harry seemed to brighten as he said, “Really, professor? And he wrote this book?” The first year Ravenclaw stared at the solid black book cover before him in renewed interest, but there was one thing missing. “Sir? You said the book was never printed because of the author's nature. What was it about Rookwood that made it impossible to print?”

Quirrell seemed to think long and hard on his choice of words. Harry could not ever remember seeing such a serious expression on the usually stutter-ridden man before. When at last the older man spoke, it was in careful and measured tones. “The nature pertains to Rookwood's current state,” he began softly. “You see, Harry, Augustus Rookwood is currently residing in a high security cell in Azkaban Prison for giving away Department of Mystery secrets to the Dark Lord in the last war.”

Harry Potter felt cold. The black book, still clutched in his hands, seemed to suddenly be radiating an evil energy, even if the young boy knew it was all likely in his imaginations. “Y-you mean,” His lips were dry, breaking his speech. “R-rookwood was a-- He was a Death Eater working for You-Know-Who?”

Quirrell seemed to be nodding his head solemnly now. “Yes, Harry, he was,” answered the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. “Rookwood was a dark wizard long before he ever joined the Dark Lord, but he was also a Death Eater.”

“B-but why show me this book then!?” demanded an outraged and frantic Harry. “If Rookwood was such an evil man, why would you want me to read his book!? Please, sir, tell me! This is all hypothetical, right? All academic, isn't it?”

“It has been my experience that to truly combat the dark forces in our world, we must understand their way of thinking.” Quirrell turned his back on the quivering young boy before him and began walking towards the center of the class. “When I was a young boy, like you, I wanted nothing more than to defeat evil wherever it could be found.

“When I graduated Hogwarts, I wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, so I traveled. In Africa I defeated a dark wizard practicing the vile art of necromancy: this dark wizard, while nowhere near as skillful as the Dark Lord, had practiced his magic in Muggle grave-yards and sought to further his knowledge.” Turning back to face the frozen student behind him, he added, “I was given this turban as a gift for that service, but more than that I had my first real encounter with the Dark Arts.”

“Shortly after,” continued Quirrell. “I met a Hag who tried to strengthen her own body using sacrificial blood rituals. A dangerous magical practice; certainly wicked dark magic.” When Harry still did not seem to understand, Quirrell pressed on: “In Albania...” Quirrell paused now; he flicked his tongue a few times and seemed to flinch for a second. In the blink of an eye, however, everything was fine. “In Albania,” he resumed. “I stumbled upon the Black Forest and met true dark creatures: vampires! Beings who feed on the very life of mortal men, on blood, to survive, and I barely survived to tell the tale.”

“W-what does any of that have to do with Death Eaters?” asked the still confused Harry Potter.

Quirrell's pale blues eyes seemed to trace every line of the young boy's face before he spoke, “Because, Harry, I learned more in those few and very brief encounters with dark magic than I had learned in all my years at Hogwarts. I learned about the nature of magic, of strength, and of respect.” Harry could actually feel his hands shaking, Rookwood's book threatening to tumble out and onto the floor. The young boy could not think of a single thing to say to his professor, who was watching him intently.

“Dark magic,” whispered Quirrell calmly. “Is still just a type of magic; a very dangerous and often-times deadly type, yes, but still magic, and this book,” he gestured to the one still in Harry's hands. “Is one of the best beginner texts on the philosophy behind dark wizard’s. It teachers few spells,” he added at the young boy's startled look. “And definitely nothing like the Unforgivable Curses, but it provides valuable insights into the mind of a dark wizard.”

“B-but should we really be reading something like this?” Even to his own ears, there was a quiver in the first year Ravenclaw's voice. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was an evil wizard – both my parents, and everybody else, say so. His followers must have been either mad or evil, too!”

“I barely survived my first encounter with the Dark Arts in Africa,” confided Quirinus Quirrell with a soft smile and a wistful look. “I had always been better with theoretical work, but failed at practical application. The dark wizard there had used his magics to control one of the earthly remains from a nearby village of Muggles, creating an artificial zombie. I had not even known such a thing was possible.” Quirrell seemed to break out into a cold sweat now. “I al-almost di-didn't make it, Har-harry,” he said again before taking a deep, calming breathe. “I lacked such critical knowledge in the field of dark magic that I could not grasp what that dark wizard had done. The same thing happened again with the Hag, and then again in Albania.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a long while. When it was finally broken, Quirrell looked well and truly drained. “I-- I do not mean to pressure you, Harry,” the professor said, looking genuinely remorseful. “I just don't want the same thing happening to you one day and I thought that book could help you. If you're not comfortable reading it, then don't. You certainly won't be tested on any of it. If you need to, read slowly so you're not overwhelmed. I warn you now, though: once read, it can never be unread. Some of the information contained in there in not really suitable for someone as young as you are. If you don't think you're ready, then don't read it.” There was another long pause, then Quirrell asked, “Do you understand me, Harry?”

It was only then that the young Potter boy realized how dry his throat was, and his whole body seemed to feel like Quirrell’s face looked: utterly drained and exhausted. Rookwood's book was still in his shaking hands, his fingers clenched around the edges so tight they were bone white. Harry's breath came in shuttering heaves. In his hands he held a book written not only by a dark wizard, but by a Death Eater and a follower of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the darkest and most evil man of all time.

In the end, however, Harry was saved from answering the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's question when the classroom door suddenly flew open with a loud _bang!_ The sound was so loud, so unexpected, that Harry actually felt his feet lift off the floor while his arms unconsciously moved the black book behind him and his whole body whirled around to greet the newcomer. To Harry's surprise it was Severus Snape.

His hair was as greasy as ever and was hanging in thick strands that dangled around his face, but Professor Snape surveyed the room in a glance with narrowed black eyes. He gaze passed briefly over the frozen form of Harry Potter until they rested on the purple robed man in the center of the room. “You're here, Quirrell...” he said smoothly, and Harry thought he might have heard a tone of disappointment, too.

Professor Quirrell seemed to have frozen as well because his face was chalky white and his mouth was gaping at the sudden intrusion. “Y-y-yes, p-prof-p-professor? W-what c-can I d-do for y-y-you?”

Snape's eyes shot rapidly to every corner of the room, seemingly searching for something, before fixing on Harry for a few moments. Finally, his eyes turned back towards Quirrell as he said, “There's been an incident. Professor Sprout had requested the assistance of a few students in preparing for her next class; a few Gryffindors volunteered.”

“T-that's p-perfectly n-no-normal, r-right?” asked a terrified looking Quirrell.

“Normally, yes,” confirmed Severus Snape with an odd gleam in his eyes. “But _sadly_ it did not go very well today. It would seem one of the students couldn't handle his assignment. I'm _afraid_ ,” his voice dripped off into a cold drawl. “Neville Longbottom was nearly strangled to death.”

  **TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not usually one for cliff-hangers (that is only a half lie), but I liked this one. Also: Rookwood’s book, huh? A trope is a trope, but forbidden books of esoteric knowledge has always been one of my favorite.


	9. Jokes On You

The news of Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived, nearly being killed had spread like an untamed wildfire by the morning of the day following the Slytherin-Gryffindor game. During the feast that morning students from nearly every house could be heard gossiping about the news. Despite its wide spread nature, however, few facts were known. 

“I heard Longbottom was helping Professor Sprout enchant things and there was an accident,” said Hufflepuff first year Hannah Abbott to her friends and housemates, Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan. 

Slytherin house was much less understanding. “I bet he just tripped on a Puffapod,” jeered third year Peregrine Derrick. 

“Or the fat lump tried to swallow one!” suggested first year Draco Malfoy, who did a passable impression of a choking Longbottom to the satisfaction of a roaring crowd. 

Gryffindor, in contrast, was uncharacteristically quiet. Either because of their defeat in Quidditch just the day before, or their housemate, the Boy-Who-Lived, being hospitalized, was anyone’s guess. Even the normally loud Weasley twins seemed to be sulking as they were hunched over in their seats and quietly whispered to one another; a state shared by many of their house. 

Ravenclaw likely would have been an exception to all of this but for one fact. 

“Come on, Harry, tell us!” begged one Terry Boot for what must have been the hundredth time that morning. “You said Snape told you something! Come on, Harry! What was it!?” Slouching in his seat between a loud-mouthed Boot and a silent Anthony Goldstein, Harry James Potter sighed deeply. 

After Professor Snape had interrupted his conversation with Quirrell, Harry had been quickly dismissed to his common room. News had not yet reached the Ravenclaw dormitories and Harry had thoughtlessly asked anyone if they had heard anything about Longbottom. This was enough to convince everyone in his house that Harry knew something they should too. Even the senior students could not seem to stop themselves. 

“You know something, Potter, so confess,” demanded Marietta Edgecombe, a girl with reddish-blonde hair only a year ahead of Harry's own. 

“If the professors swore you to secrecy then you shouldn't say anything,” advised Penelope Clearwater. 

“Sod that!” objected Prefect Robert Hilliard from her side. “The professors haven't told us a thing! Spill, Potter! What's the deal!?” 

His frustration rising, Harry finally snapped, “Fine! I'll tell you!” At once, the table seemed to go quiet and everyone's attention was on the young first year boy. “I was speaking with Professor Quirrell about a book when Professor Snape came in and told Quirrell what happened. Professor Snape made me leave before I could hear anything else, but he mentioned Longbottom had almost been strangled.” 

“Well that's not much,” huffed a disappointed Boot. 

“Maybe not,” disagreed the Indian girl, Padma Patil, who had been silent until now. “If Snape went to find Quirrell then it might have to do with dark magic. Quirrell is the teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts, after all.” 

“But it's Quirrell we're talking about,” dismissed a skeptical Stephen Cornfoot. “He doesn't know a thing about magic. I haven't learned a thing from him!” 

Harry, either out of a strange desire to defend the stuttering professor's abilities or a general desire to disagree with Cornfoot, nearly said something, but Hilliard beat him to it, “Quirrell's not that bad. You should have seen the person we got last year; she was hopeless.” 

It seemed that with his part of the story told, everyone had suddenly lost interest in young Harry James Potter and the various groups and ages of Ravenclaw students moved back into their own social circles. Patil and Cornfoot started arguing about Quirrell's teaching syllabus while Hilliard and Clearwater exchanged stories about the apparently horrible defense professor from the previous year. No one so much as spared the emerald eyed Potter a second glance. 

Going from the center of attention to the least interesting person in the room left the young Harry with a faint aching pain in his chest and a feeling similar to whip-lash, but he quickly dismissed it when he caught sight of the snow white owl flying in his direction. After dropping her burden of a single rolled up newspaper and a tightly bound letter envelope, Harry’s pet owl, Hedwig, landed on the Ravenclaw table amidst the gushing remarks of many of the nearby girls, who praised the bird for her beautiful feathers. 

Scooping up Hedwig’s deposited contents, Harry made certain to scratch the head of his personal post-owl before feeding her a few strips of bacon. The bird puffed up in importance after finishing her treat before taking off towards the window. Smiling fondly at his pet, Harry tore open the letter and was unsurprised to find the weekly correspondents from his mother, Lily Potter. 

“Someone's popular, “ teased Anthony, eying the letter. “Another one from your mother, I take it?” 

“It is,” confirmed the Potter boy. “She says she misses me and can't wait until December. The winter holidays are coming up so she's trying to make sure I'll be coming home to visit.” 

“My mother is the same way,” Anthony said sympathetically with a pat on the other boy's shoulder. “She hasn’t been handling me being away very well so she's really looking forward to seeing me again.” The loving son of Lily Potter smiled in understanding. 

“By the way,” the halfblood Goldstein changed subjects. “In your story earlier to everyone, you left out why you went to see Professor Quirrell in the first place. You said before he mentioned a book. Was it any good? You said I could read it, remember?” 

Harry actually felt his heart skip a beat. Thinking quickly, the emerald eyed boy said, “It-- It turned out to be nothing, Anthony. I didn't even accept it.” He spoke in what he hoped was a confident enough tone the other Ravenclaw would drop the subject and, thankfully, he did. The rest of the morning feast passed in relative silence. Eventually talk moved from the state of the Boy-Who-Lived and onto the series of pranks that had hit the school. The Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch game may have passed and the excitement of the new Quidditch season with it, but only a few hours after the game had ended - and interrupting the celebrations in the house of ambition – was a series of pranks that had targeted nearly every year in Slytherin house ranging from simple pink hair charms to things more elaborate like pants trying to fly away while still being worn. 

The timing and choice of only Slytherin targets led many to believe it was the work of someone from Gryffindor in retribution for their lost Quidditch game. Although it may have been a coincidence, Professor Snape and even Professor McGonagall seemed to be keeping a close eye on the red haired Weasley twins of Gryffindor, who were well known for their pranks. Harry had not paid much attention to it all himself, being in Ravenclaw and not a gossip mongerer, and had instead focused on something more personal. 

Reflecting on the previous night, Harry was very thankful for Professor Snape's interruption yesterday because it had put an end to the young Ravenclaw's conversation with Quirinus Quirrell, but unfortunately Harry had not yet had the opportunity to give the Death Eater book back to the Defense Against the Dart Arts professor. Because certainty it had all been a test of some sort, right? There was no way the Dark Arts _defense_ professor would really want one of his first year students reading a book written by a Death Eater about dark magic, even if it was only on theory. 

As for the book itself, Harry was very thankful it had no recognizable markings because he had carried the solid black book through the halls and, immediately after entering his dormitory, hidden Augustus Rookwood's book as deep as he possibly could inside his trunk. He had every intention of keeping it right there, unopened and unread, until he could convince Professor Quirrell to take it back. Still... For some strange reason, the young eleven year could not keep himself from wondering. Professor Quirrell had said that it was important to understand how a dark wizard's mind worked. Previously, Harry had always silently agreed with his father's opinion on the subject: practitioners of the Dark Arts were all either crazy or evil. But Quirrell seemed to think there was more to it than that. Reading a book written by a Death Eater would just be mad, but certainty there was nothing wrong with looking into it a little, right? 

In the true fashion of anyone from Ravenclaw house, a lack of information meant a book they had not read yet. Normally, Harry would have taken care of any of his private studying in the Ravenclaw common room, which boasted a sizable enough book collection to handle most student's needs. However, such a decision would have left him under the scrutiny of not only his housemates, but Professor Flitwick as well. No matter his reasoning for the research, the young Potter child was not anxious to try and explain his sudden (even if only theoretical) interest in dark magic. 

So it was that Harry found himself seated at a table in the far back of the Hogwarts library. His position was a favored one of pranksters and miscreants because it was positioned in just the right place to avoid any passing students and stay out of the ever watchful eyes of Irma Pince, the resident head librarian who treated the books under her care like they were holy relics of Merlin himself. Sequestered away from everyone, Harry turned his attention to the books spread out before him. To best understand his desired subject, the eleven year old had thought to take a book from nearly every section of the massive library. 

A copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ was flipped over to the story of the “Warlock's Hairy Heart,” a child's story meant to warn young witches and wizards of the evils of dark magic. Although he had always preferred the tale of the Three Brothers, a younger Harry Potter had once listened to the story of the Warlock when his mother read to him before he slept. She had said it was a terrible story for children, but had read it nonetheless. The Warlock in the story had hid away his “heart” using the Dark Arts in an attempt to never feel love and this action would later lead to his death when the heart was corrupted by dark magic. As a moral tale it had little factual information, but it highlighted the main stream stigma surrounding the Dark Arts. Even more importantly to Harry, however, is that the book long predates the rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, having been written in the 15th Century and showed a fear of dark magic from before the Death Eater’s rise to power. 

The young Ravenclaw found much more useful information in the Ministry of Magic sponsored book _The Rise and Fall of The Dark Arts_. Providing a brief overview of many notable dark wizards and witches, the book mainly focused on the rise of Gellert Grindelwald and the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. For the former, it mentions little besides Grindelwald's apparent mastery of the Dark Arts, but for the latter it went into greater detail. The most surprising, however, was the general lack of information on what dark magic even was, with no official definition provided. The only mentions of the Dark Arts directly is the Death Eaters’ flagrant use of the Unforgivable Curses and the “Dark Mark of You-Know-Who” that was used as a weapon of terror during the war. 

It was the growing frustration of realizing this that prevented the young Potter boy from noticing the approaching footsteps until they had already come to stand before him. With a sharp cough meant to convey one was clearing their throat, the eleven year old Harry James Potter felt a crick in his neck when it snapped up to focus on the new arrival only to be met with the haughty gaze of one Lisa Turpin. “Researching something interesting, Potter?” she asked rhetorically as her light brown colored eyes roamed the scattered array of books spread across the table. Her eyes seemed to catch on the colored illustration of You-Know-Who's Dark Mark that the young Potter had been intently studying. “Not exactly class work, I see…” 

Slamming said book closed, Harry snapped in frustration, “What do you want, Turpin!?” 

There was something close to surprise in her eyes, but it was gone in an instant. “In a bad mood today, Potter?” the Ravenclaw girl asked tauntingly. With a pointed look towards the pile of books, she asked, “Interested in expanding your repertoire of spells?” 

His eyes narrowed from the anger of being ignored, he tersely replied, “Not that it's any of your business either way, but no. Professor Quirrell mentioned something the other day and I wanted to investigate it for myself.” 

“Must have been interesting,” she commented airily. “To get you reading about the Dark Arts. I thought your daddy was a high ranking Auror; you sure he'd approve of your hobby?” 

“I don't see why not. I'm only studying,” Harry half-lied. James Potter was a sort-of-famous person at the Ministry for his staunch opposition of anything related to the Dark Arts and would certainly be weary of his son's interests, but the young boy liked to think his father would understand a desire to know how the “enemy” fights. It was only the smart thing to do, after all. At least, he hoped that is how the man would see it. It is not like he was going to tell him so it did not really matter either way. 

Judging from the look in his fellow first year's eyes, Turpin seemed to believe it about as much as he did. “I'll leave you to your reading,” she said after a short pause. As she was walking away, she shot over her shoulder, “Try to pay more attention next time, Potter. Hogwarts is more dangerous than usual lately.” 

Harry watched the girl walk away with a confused look. ' _What could she possibly mean by that?_ ' he wondered before deciding. ' _Probably the series of pranks._ ' Casting his emerald colored gaze to the other side of the library, Harry found a clustered group of Slytherin students of varying years, ranging from second to fifth, no doubt seeking safety in number. First years had been spared the threat of being pranked, it seemed, because none of them had been targeted yet. 

Dismissing the issue from his mind, the young Potter tried to focus again on his reading but the combination of the waning hour and Turpin’s interruption had all but sapped his energy for the night. With a sigh of resignation, Harry quickly filed away all his books, lest he face the wrath of Irma Pince, before wishing the head librarian a whispered good night and making his way towards the Ravenclaw dormitories. 

Harry had made it no further than half way down the hall before he heard a loud popping sound from behind him. Turning to investigate, he saw as the dimly lit hall was illuminated in a shower of red and gold sparks that faded before reaching the floor. “What the--” he began to say before looking down. The sparks had not disappeared as he had originally thought, but had instead fallen to the floor and formed a foamy substance that reminded him of soap bubbles. However, it was only after he tried to move that Harry realized something important: the foam had locked his feet in place. Struggling for all his eleven year old legs were worth, the Ravenclaw boy succeeded only in turning the foam into a mush the made moving even more difficult. Instinctively pulling out his wand, the young boy's mind raced for a counter charm, but failed at even identifying the spell that had trapped him. 

Focusing his attention on the mush around his legs instead, Harry chanted, “ _Diffindo!_ ” As he had pictured in his mind, four cuts appeared in the hardening mush, yet left the still struggling student in a block of the now hardening substance, but thankfully still separating him from the rest of the mess. Desperately wishing he knew the Banishing Charm or something to simply be rid of it all, Harry was so busy with thinking of a way out of it that he actually flinched when another series of popping sounds was heard. 

Turning frantically, Harry watched as the hardened mush began to bubble up slightly before exploding into a shower of red and gold sparks, essentially reversing itself. More disturbing, however, was the scorch marks left behind and the fact that it was spreading to the rest of the mush, including the block still tightly binding Harry's feet. Panicking slightly now, the young Ravenclaw's mind raced, trying to find a way to escape his current predicament. Half way in his mind between calling out for a teacher – who would not get here in time anyway – and cutting off his own legs – which would be worse than the explosion – Harry eyes brightened up in inspiration. 

Pointing his crooked Blackthorn and Ash wand in-between his feet, Harry said again, “Diffindo!” The raven haired boy managed a weak smile when the block around his feet split in two, freeing his legs. Unfortunately, the restoration of his freedom meant very little as the weight of the heavy blocks of hardened foam anchored him in place. Behind him, the young Potter could hear the series of popping sounds growing closer with his panic rising as a result. Cursing himself for not knowing the Feather-weight Charm, the first year Ravenclaw did the next best thing. 

“Spongify!” he screamed in desperation. The Softening Charm instantly turned the heavy and hardened foam into a light-weight rubber. Feeling the weight lifting from his ankles and feet, Harry wasted no time in jumping clear over the remaining hardened mush around him and just barely managed to escape the explosion of red and gold sparks that followed him not even a second later. 

Now standing safely to the side, Harry panted away his adrenaline rush as he braced himself against the wall. With a deep breathe to collect himself, he once again focused on the spot he had just seconds ago vacated. The areas were the hardened mush had exploded were obvious because of the black scorch marks left behind, all save for the neatly cut square in the middle were the young Ravenclaw had just moments ago been standing. Of even more interest to the young Potter, though, was the swirling red and gold sparking lights that danced in the air like multicolored pixies from a Muggle fairy-tale. When the last pop sounded and the last bit of sparks joined the growing and floating mass, Harry braced himself when the sparks changed to a deep emerald color and took the form of a snake with a hissing tongue. 

“Slytherin house?” he wondered aloud, his mind racing to identify his attacker. Just as soon as the thought crossed his mind, however, the snake's mouth split open and seemed to devour itself before turning inside out and revealing a roaring lion spewing fire. The word “Gryffindor” formed in the air before it faded away in a flurry of red and gold sparks once more and disappeared for good. 

It was only then that Harry Potter had been able to use his Ravenclaw mind to figure out what had happened here. The serial pranksters targeting Slytherin house had set this up, likely intending to hit the group of Slytherins from the library that were only now coming out and stopping to gape at the tired looking Ravenclaw. Harry probably would have been racing to come up with a believable explanation for all this, but the form of Professor McGonagall made itself known before he could even try. 

The aged transfiguration professor was looking at the spot where the Gryffindor word-sparks had been with opened mouth shock and Harry released a sigh of relief when he noticed this because it meant she had been there for that long at least. After only a few seconds the teacher seemed to snap out of her shocked daze before fixing the young Ravenclaw with a concerned look and spoke... but no sound came out. 

His mind fully catching up with him now that the danger had passed, Harry became dimly aware that he could not hear a thing from the crowd of Slytherins down the hall even though he could clearly see their mouths moving. The soundless exclamations emitted by McGonagall seemed to prove this and, with a sudden light of understanding that reached her eyes, the transfiguration professor quickly withdrew her wand and with a flourishing wave, the sound of the world was restored and Harry could not only hear the mutterings of the Slytherins, but Professor McGonagall as well: 

“I think, Mister Potter,” she began with a resigned sort of sternness, like she was dreading what would follow. “It would be best if you explained what just happened.” 

Harry, blinking dumbly at the professor's words, could only nod in agreement.

* * *

For the second time in only a little over a week, Harry James Potter found himself under the care of the Hogwarts school healer, Madam Pomfrey. The elderly healer was holding her wand parallel with the young Potter's nose and was having Harry follow the illuminated tip with his eyes while his head remained in place. After a few moments of this, the light was extinguished, leaving Harry with splotches in vision as his emerald eyes adjusted to the sudden change in lighting. “It would seem,” the witch was saying. “That you are perfectly fine, Mr. Potter.” 

The first year Ravenclaw spared the Healer a disbelieving look before sending a pointed look at his ankles. Despite the Severing Charms he had used to free himself before, two independent blocks of weighted cement-like matter still held tight around his ankles – Harry’s Softening Charm having expired long ago. Following her patient's gaze, Madam Pomfrey frowned before aiming her wand at the blocks. “Finite Incantatem!” she said, casting what Harry knew to be the General-Counter Spell. A quick flash of bright red light struck the weighted blocks of blue-gray stone, but instead of removing them the spell actually seemed to make them grow. The blocks, which had only surrounded his ankles before, seemed to convulse before growing up his leg, nearly reaching his knee-caps.

“I didn't expect that to work,” remarked Professor McGonagall from where she was standing by the door. Making her way towards where Harry was sitting on one of the infirmary beds, the transfiguration teacher pulled her wand from her robes and, soundlessly, cast a few spells. The first did nothing at all, but the second one changed the stone's color to bright pink while the third caused it to grow larger and heavier. 

Her eyes narrowing in anger and frustration, the Gryffindor head of house sighed before putting away her wand. Turning to the hospital matron, she said, “Do what you can for him, Poppy. I believe I know who is responsible for this. I'll go fetch them both.” With a nod of understanding from Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall sent the young Potter a reassuring look before quickly departing from the room. 

Watching as the transfiguration professor left, Harry's eyes must have conveyed his concern because Poppy Pomfrey laid a comforting hand on the eleven-year-old's shoulder and, with a smile, said, “Professor McGonagall has quite a bit of experience with pranks like this one. You're going to be fine.” 

“A prank?” he asked, blinking in confusion. “The other ones were exploding and could have taken off my leg! You can't tell me that was just a prank! Someone could have been seriously hurt.” 

“Yes, someone could have been gravely injured,” she agreed with an expression of extreme sadness, but said nothing more and instead went about poking her wand at the blocks while muttering a few words. When he felt the weight lift away from his ankles, Harry spared the healer a smile for her Feather-weight Charm. 

Significantly more relaxed now, Harry sent his eyes across the room in an effort to ignore the still present blocks. As was typical for the infirmary this late in the evening, the emerald eyed Potter could see no other nurses or patients. Just as he was about to conclude he and the hospital matron were the only occupants, he noticed something. “Madam,” he said hesitantly, taking the healer's attention away from a piece of parchment she had been reading. “Who's in there?” He gestured with his hand, indicating a closed partition surrounding one of the beds near the window and the silhouette it showed of someone asleep on a bed. 

Following his gesticulation, Madam Pomfrey's expression turned to a frown when her eyes landed on the partition. “Mr. Longbottom,” was her simple answer. 

“The Boy-Who-Lived?” asked a surprised Harry, only to wince at the seemingly reproachful look the matron sent him. “I- I mean, I was just surprised, you see? There are rumors he was attacked with dark magic. I didn't believe them, but I thought he would have already been released. Is it serious?” 

Pomfrey’s expression went from scolding to confused to alarmed before finally settling on amused. Turning her attention back to the parchment she had been reading before, the matron said, “Nothing so serious as dark magic, I assure you, Mr. Potter. Young Neville simply had a nasty run in with one of Professor Sprout's plant samples; a tricky piece of Devil's Snare.” 

Recalling such a name from his Herbology book, Harry nodded in understanding. “That's the plant with a weakness to light, isn't? Couldn't you just use a fire spell, like the Bluebell Flames Charm?” ' _Or the Fire Making Charm,_ ' he mentally added, briefly remembering his practice with that particular spell. 

For some reason, Pomfrey started laughing. Hurt, and wondering if he had remembered wrong, Harry was about to explain that Herbology was not his best subject when the hospital matron said, “Right in one, Mr. Potter. Five points to Ravenclaw.” She praised before stifling another laugh. At her patient's questioning look, she added, “Ms. Granger from Gryffindor happened to be nearby when young Neville was attacked and her thoughts mirrored your own as she used blue fire to ward off the plant. Unfortunately for Mr. Longbottom, however, it was not before he sustained a number of scratches and bruises.” 

The same as _Granger_. Harry had blocked out the rest of the matron's words following that admission. Granger... It was always Granger. Before his thoughts could turn truly dark regarding the Gryffindor muggle-born, he was startled by the sudden opening of the infirmary doors. 

Professor McGonagall had returned and she was not alone. Just a few steps behind her, following her with wide and cheerful smiles without a care in the world, was a seemingly identical set of two boys who looked to be in their second or third year here at Hogwarts. Their matching bright red hair and dark brown eyes left them distinguishable from others, but Harry recognized them at once by their reputation alone. Before him, smiling happily at being caught, was the infamous prankster pair of Weasley twins, Fred and George of Gryffindor. 

As the two boy's entered the room, their eyes quickly scanned the empty beds with a look of disappointment before their eyes landed on Harry. At once, their eyes caught on the blocks encasing the first year’s legs, but the two Gryffindor's frowned when their eyes landed on the blue tie hanging loosely around the younger boy's neck. Watching the pair share a conspiratorial look, Harry was reminded of the many shared looks his father and god-father would give each other while recounting one of their many pranks during their own Hogwarts years. The stern frown and fond lip twitching on McGonagall's face also reminded him of his mother's response to those same stories. Perhaps because of these resemblances, the young Ravenclaw decided he already did not like the prankster twins of Gryffindor; the weighted blocks around his lower legs certainty did not help either. 

“Well,” started the stern Professor McGonagall. “What do you have to say for yourselves?” 

“I didn’t know how to bring this up before,” started up one of them; Harry did not know which. “But we feel our transfiguration homework might be a little unfair. Right, George?” 

“I concur, Fred,” the other agreed, with a nod of his head. “Most unfair.” 

In many ways, Professor McGonagall could be much more terrifying than her counterpart in Slytherin, Severus Snape. The only reason Snape was most people's choice for most terrifying was a simple matter of frequency. However, Harry thought, the look the Gryffindor head of house sent her resident pranksters, and the accompanying thinning of her lips, made a believer out of Harry. Fortunately for them, it seemed the two Weasley boys knew what that look meant because they were instantly quiet; their once widely grinning faces now shifting to ones approaching genuine fear. “I trust,” began the fearsome head of Gryffindor house. “You know why you were brought here.” 

One of the twins – Harry still could not tell which – fixed the blocks with a worried look while the other met Harry's own eyes with what might have been an apologetic look. “One of our pranks hit the wrong person,” admitted the one starring at the blocks. 

McGonagall, for her part, seemed torn between surprise that they had actually confessed and near shouting that they did so only because they had gotten the wrong person. “Be that as it may,” she gritted out through clenched teeth. “Young Mr. Potter here – who I might add is a first year; a new low even for you two – could have been gravely harmed thanks to your carelessness.” 

The Weasley twin that had spoken before puffed his chest up in wounded pride, but the apologetic one said, “We understand, professor…” He began reaching for his pocket, but sent a questioning, “May I?” look to his head of house. When she nodded her acceptance, the Weasley boys withdrew their wands and aimed them squarely at the only first year in the room. Although he tried to hide the sudden flinch that overcame him, Harry could tell by the glare the transfiguration teacher sent the two offenders that he had failed. Instead of cursing him as he had expected, Harry was pleasantly surprised when a blue-green light was emitted from their wands and after it struck the knee high blocks around his legs, the young Ravenclaw was very relieved to feel the weight suddenly disappear. 

Harry barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before he noticed the chill on his legs. Looking down at his feet, the emerald eyed boy could feel his face heat up when he noticed that not only were his shoes now gone, but his robes were in tatters from the knee down, exposing his knobby knees for all to see. An audible snicker sounded from the direction of the two Gryffindor pranksters, but a swift glare from their head of house silenced them. Shifting her attention to the infirmary matron that was now busily examining Harry's newly exposed legs, McGonagall said, “I trust you can handle things from here, Poppy? I believe the Weasley boys and I have much to discuss. Good day, Poppy, Mr. Potter.” Without another word or glance, but with a deafeningly silent command, she left the room followed shortly by two Weasley boys. 

In a room now free of Gryffindors – forgetting, for the moment, the resting Boy-Who-Lived in the corner – Harry released a long and tired sigh. “I don't think I'll ever understand Gryffindors,” he confided to himself. 

Surprisingly, someone else agreed. “I never could,” admitted Poppy Pomfrey. Meeting the Ravenclaw's astonished look with a conspiratorial wink, she added, “I was a Hufflepuff myself.” With that entirely unsurprising revelation, Harry laid himself back down on his infirmary bed with a yawn. He was asleep less than a minute later. 

* * *

Harry was not released until noon of the following day, by which time he had nearly been begging the infirmary matron to just let him go. When she finally did, Harry was disappointed to hear he had already missed Professor Quirrell's lesson and would be forced to hang on to Rookwood's book for even longer. In fact, not for the first time, Harry began to wonder if the defense professor was avoiding him. On the bright side, the sudden end of the serial pranks and the Weasley twin's loss of fifty points for their house, combined with Ravenclaw’s victory over Hufflepuff in the much less anticipated Quidditch game that follow, put the whole house of the intelligent in a good mood. 

Regardless, life at Hogwarts went on. By the middle of December, the school was already buried beneath several feet of snow and Professor Flitwick had taken to asking each student, of every year, if they would be staying at Hogwarts for the winter break. Harry, naturally, politely declined; he was enjoying his school days well enough, but despite his weekly letters back home, the eleven year old Potter child grew increasingly homesick. It also did not help that nearly every teacher, well aware of the upcoming break, had only been assigning remedial course work. The only exceptions being Professor Binns, who probably could not even remember what winter was, and Professor Snape, who simply did not care. Regardless, for the students like Harry who were comfortable with their course work, it left a sudden abundance of free time with the light homework load. 

Harry used this free time to play games with Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot, while privately studying spells, his other classwork, and trying to give Quirrell back his thrice cursed book. It was a sign of his desperation that the day before break was to begin, the emerald eyed Potter briefly considered handing over Rookwood's book to Professor Flitwick, or even Professor Snape. Only the fear of how either would react, especially the potion's master, that prevented it. 

With a resigned sigh, Harry - and all the other first year students going home – allowed himself to be ferried across the lake on little boats once again, Rookwood's book at the bottom of his school bag for fear of its discovery had it been left behind. Even with the Dark Arts book still in his possession, however, Harry was looking forward to his winter break back home at Godric's Hollow. So it was that, too distracted to read, the youngest Potter watched idly as the landscape flew by against the speed of the train Harry now found himself on. 

Despite his hopes for a quiet and peaceful ride, the very reason he had not sought out either Goldstein or Boot who were also going home, it seems it was not meant to be. Tearing his attention away from a particularly interesting batch of trees that were going by, the first year Ravenclaw found his eyes shifting to the opening cabin compartment door of the Hogwarts Express. It was with a resigned sort of exasperation that Harry greeted the cold and taunting brown eyes of Lisa Turpin. 

“As charming as ever, Potter,” she remarked before taking a seat on the bench across from him and staring out the window just as the raven haired boy had been. 

“Is there something I can help you with, Turpin?” asked Harry, feeling more than a little annoyed with his fellow Ravenclaw. Really, they were not even friends! 

“Not especially,” she answered plainly. When she made no move to continue, Harry decided it was best to ignore the troublesome girl. Only a few minutes later, and just as he was getting absorbed in the view of the lush green field once more, he heard her say, “It must have been terrible.” 

Already knowing he would regret this, the young Potter asked, “What was so terrible?” 

“Your childhood,” she explained, causing the boy across from her to tense. “You were raised by Gryffindors, correct? That must have been terrible.” 

“You don't know anything about my family!” snapped a now angry Harry Potter. “My mother was a great parent!” 

“Nothing about your Auror father, I notice,” Her eyes were... glinting, of all things. “He was a prankster back in his school days, right? Did those Weasley boys remind you of him, I wonder?” 

Harry was surprised and really, he should not be. Gryffindor's loss of so many points had not gone unnoticed, neither had the prankster Weasley twin’s weekend detentions, nor had anyone failed to notice the end of the serial pranks. Someone had also apparently done the math and realized that Harry had been in the infirmary just the day before all of this. Some Slytherins had actually taken to congratulating Harry for “putting an end to the menace,” although he could tell they did not really mean it. 

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Turpin,” he lied. Deciding it really was best to ignore the bothersome girl now, Harry instead pretended she did not even exist and returned to staring aimlessly out the train's windows. Smirking at her victory, Lisa Turpin said nothing more. The two members of Ravenclaw spent the rest of the train ride in tense, but absolutely silent company. Neither saying anything and the only noise being the rolling of the tracks and infrequent breathes. When at last Platform 9 and ¾ came into view and the Hogwarts Express came to a stop, Harry released a relieved breathe before standing up. 

Despite the crowded nature of the train, first through seventh years anxious to get off and back to their families, it was with a great deal of frustration that the young Potter child realized Turpin was following him. Either that or it really was that crowded. As he watched to third years elbow each other in an effort to escape the cramped train first, Harry conceded it actually might have been the latter. Regardless, and after a bit of time, it was finally safe for the smaller eleven-year-old's to get out of the train. With most of the older years already gone, the train platform was mostly empty. It was because of this that Harry had no trouble picking out the flaming head of red hair standing only a short bit away. Smiling unconsciously, Harry made to leave, but found his feet faltering. 

“Good luck on your studies, Potter,” was the whispered words of Lisa Turpin. By the time he had turned to look at her, she was already off and making her way towards a thin looking woman wearing dark blue and a man dressed in a navy-blue Muggle suit that looked like he would rather be anywhere else. 

Before he had time to wonder about that, another voice redirected his thoughts yet again; this time it was considerably more welcome: “Harry!” Catching sight of her son, Lily Potter was quick to make her way over. Just behind her and smiling in equal parts fondness and exasperation was her husband and Harry's father, James Potter. 

Without time to even think, the only son of the Potter family found himself enveloped in a tight hug courtesy of his mother. Even with the dispersing crowd of people, Harry still noticed the smiling and laughing faces of Hogwarts students and their families as they watched the scene. His face flushing red, Harry tried to speak but found his words muffled in a current of flowing red hair that smelled of their owner’s namesake. Taking pity on his son, James Potter placed a hand on his wife's shoulder and said, “Lily, you’re suffocating the poor boy.” 

Finally – _Finally!_ \- letting go, Lily smiled broadly at her son. “You must tell me everything!” she insisted, watching as her son tried to catch his breathe. “Letters can only explain so much.” 

“I'm sure he will,” placated James reassuringly while sending an encouraging look towards his son. Catching the look, Harry confirmed his father's words. As the red haired Potter began firing off questions, her husband patted his only child on the back. Smiling warmly, he greeted, “Welcome home, Harry.” 

Smiling in response, Harry could only say: “It's good to be here.” 

Thoughts of evil dark wizard's books, annoying school girls, frustrating professors, and the constant studying for his Hogwarts lessons momentarily left his mind and Harry James Potter just knew: this break was going to be great.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is generally considered the best in the story and is nearly twice the size of any before it. Why, on both counts? Because holidays and a return to Potter family domesticity and more. So look forward to that!


	10. The Winter Duel

“And then Professor Snape just said, in that way he does, ' _Fifteen points taken, Mr. Hopkins._ ' You could tell some of the other Hufflepuffs wanted to say something to defend him, but most were too busy scrapping the green gunk from their eyes.” Stifling a laugh at her son's remarkable impersonation of her childhood friend, Lily Potter could not help but smile as her little Ravenclaw boy launched into yet another story involving her friend, Severus, and another potions lesson. Watching as Harry dramatically told his tale, his hands gesticulating in erratic movements, and taking in the wide smile on her son's face, Lily could not help but match his own enthusiasm with his otherwise lackluster tale.

In the weeks’ time since Hogwarts’ winter break had begun and he returned home to Godric's Hollow, Harry had spent nearly every minute with his mother and, when possible, his father. However, with the latter’s busy work schedule, Lily more often than not found herself with a raven haired and emerald eyed shadow as she went about her business. A shadow that, a week removed from Hogwarts, had still not run out of stories about his classes. It was with a fierce maternal pride that Lily could also say that when those stories did not involve the failures of his classmates, Harry's rumination's consisted of his many first year achievements and his teacher's many praises; including, but not limited to, being the first in his year to learn the Levitation Charm and his proficiency with the Severing and Fire-Making charms.

In fact, the only questions that even seemed to slow him down at all was how he spent his first All Hollows Eve away from home, or who his favorite teacher was. For the former, the red haired mother thought her son might be embarrassed and for the latter, she assumed based on Harry's stories of him, it was Severus Snape.

“Me and Anthony – Anthony Goldstein that is – have even been practicing a few spells on the side outside of class,” explained a still smiling Harry. “We were working on the Tickling Hex and the Full-Body Bind Curse when break started.”

“You better not be using them on anybody,” his mother lightly scolded, knowing quite well her son was not likely to. “And I hope you are learning more than curses!”

“I am!” he was quick to assure with a rising blush. “I think I've almost got the Unlocking Charm figured out now, too.”

Laughing, Lily Potter said, “Oh, no! Should I be worried that my son is learning the thieves’ spell? I might have to hide all my things now.” Harry's scowling face was her only reply and it served only to send his mother into a series of laughing fits at the scrunched up face of her adorable little boy that looked far too serious on his youthful features. Before either could say anything else, a soft rumbling redirected their attention. Turning towards the large cauldron that once again found itself on the top of the Potter family’s kitchen counter, Lily smiled, this time not in amusement but with pride in her and her son both.

“It's bubbling a little,” observed Harry from her side, peering down into the cauldron. “That should mean it's about done, right?”

“Ten points to Ravenclaw,” was her cheeky answer. “The winter seasons always have a rush of colds. Mulpepper's Apothecary - in Diagon Alley, where else? – has been hiring me to help with their stocking troubles and Mr. Mulpepper is expecting a rush of colds this year.”

“Hard at work, I see,” remarked a male voice from the door-way. Turning to greet the man, both Lily and Harry were met with the sight of an exhausted looking man with what seemed to be hair going prematurely gray; his light brown hair flaking with discolored gray. He wore a rather worn-out and ragged looking set of wizard robes with frayed edges topped by a used looking Muggle coat jacket. Most expressive, however, was the wide smile on his chapped looking lips that distorted the dark black bags resting under his eyes. Yes, this man was one of James Potter's best friends, Remus Lupin.

“Of course I'm hard at work, Remus,” replied Lily with a smirk. “Not all of us can laze about all day.”

Remus let out what could only be described as a self-deprecating chuckle before he said, “I'm sorry again for imposing like this. I'll be gone in--”

He got no further. With a frustrated sigh, Lily reprimanded, “Nonsense! You know I'm only joking. We're happy to have you here, really! James has been trying to convince you to stay with us for years now.”

Knowing there was nothing he could say to change the stubborn red head's mind, Remus Lupin put his hands up in defeat. With a triumphant smile, the Potter mother turned back to her bubbling cauldron. Shifting his dull green eyes, Remus met a pair of sparkling emerald ones. “So tell me, Harry,” he began, once again cheerful. “How are your Defense Against the Dark Arts classes going? Professor Dumbledore is known to appoint some odd ones to the post.”

Harry's previously bright emerald eyes dulled for a moment at the question, but quickly shined once more. “Professor Quirrell,” the boy started. “Is a little odd, but he's pretty good. I've already learned quite a bit this year.”

“That's good,” sighed Remus in apparent relief. “Defense was always one of my favorite subjects. It's good to hear it’s being taught well. I've always wanted to teach.” The last part was said with a sort of wistfulness; the older man's face taking on a deep frown.

Harry, who noticed his pseudo-uncle's sudden turn in expression, asked, “Why can't you teach? From all the stories dad and Sirius tell, you'd probably be great! I bet you could teach me loads.” The first year Ravenclaw thought it would be a great idea. From the terrified and frantic look Remus sent the boy's mother, he did not seem to agree.

Catching her friend's troubled look, Lily turned to her son and said, “Remus has a... health problem that prevents him from teaching. We try not to talk about.”

As Harry nodded thoughtfully, probably thinking back to some moon-lit night when his uncle acted strangely, while Remus' eyes took on a haunted and glassy look. Thankfully, by the time his pseudo-nephew looked his way, the look was gone. Putting on his best smile - one gained from long practice – Remus Lupin said, “I best leave you two be. I wouldn't want to distract your assistant, Lily.”

“Actually,” said Lily in a way that reminded the man of why she was friends with Severus Snape. “I think I have this under control. Why don't you and Harry head to the basement? I'm sure you can give him a few pointers, Remus.”

With a genuine smile this time, Remus nodded his head. Looking down at the bright eyed Hogwarts first year, he asked, “What do you say, Harry? Up for a few lessons from this old man?”

“Hey!” gripped Lily. “We are the same age and I am not old!”

“Sorry, sorry!” was Remus' quick response, but the laugh belayed his remorse. “So, Harry?”

His bright eyes glancing between the bubbling cauldron and his uncle, Harry seemed to be weighing the two options before finally nodding his head and saying, “I think I'd like that.” Whispering an apology for abandoning his mother – which she ignored with a smile – Harry followed Remus out of the kitchen.

The Potter's home of Godric's Hollow was of standard fair for a moderately wealthy wizarding family like the Potter's were. A far cry from the cold manors of families such as the Malfoys or Blacks, it was equally as far from a crowded yet warm home like the Weasleys. As a two story, three bedroom house, the place was plenty for a small family and a single guest – most often, Remus. Like all wizarding homes, however, there was usually a place to just unwind and cast a few spells. For the Potter home, that was the basement.

Having been personally charmed by Lily Potter – a mistress of the art, but for the official title – the basement was much larger than the Muggle equivalent would be and was considerably taller; the “bigger on the inside” aspect taken to a reasonable extent. The fact James had apparently taken the effort to have a few practice dummies put down here and little else spoke of the room's purpose. Guiding his young soon-to-be-pupil down the creaking wooden stairs and into said basement, Remus asked, “So how have your classes been going, Harry?”

“Good so far,” was his hesitant answer; the young boy eying the nearest dummy rather oddly. “Defense, Charms, and Potions have been great. I don't think I'm a big fan of Transfiguration, though, or Astronomy.”

“Your father must have been sad to hear you don't like Transfiguration,” remarked Remus with a fond half-smile. “It was always his favorite class. Sirius used to tease him about it; claimed he was rather sweet on Professor McGonagall.”

Harry actually seemed to cringe, causing the older man to laugh. Shaking his head, likely to rid himself of the image, Harry said, “I appreciate your offer to teach me, Uncle Remus, but I don’t know what good that--” He waved towards the dummies. “Will do when I can't use magic outside of school since I’m under-aged.” Harry was, of course, referring to the Ministry of Magic’s commonly known Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery; a law stating the no wizarding person under the legal age of seventeen could perform magic outside of their school of choice. The Trace Charm was the Ministry’s means of detecting when a spell was cast, but Harry did not know the specifics.

“Let me let you in on a little secret, Harry,” Lowering his voice conspiratorially, Remus said, “The Trace only matters around non-magical peoples since it can only detect the use of magic and not who it came from. Here, in a registered wizard's home, the Ministry of Magic would just assume it was either me or your mother.”

His eyes widening at that information, the first year Ravenclaw asked, “Are... are you sure?”

“Of course! Otherwise, you would have been approached at Ollivander's when you got your wand. You used magic with a wand there, didn't you?”

“I- I never really thought about that,” admitted a sheepish looking Harry Potter, now remembering he had even practiced some spells at home the summer after first obtaining his wand.

“Most don't,” the older man pointed out. “The rule is mainly meant for muggle-borns; so they don't expose magic to the Muggles.” His lips twitching in mirth, he added, “It also helps limit the damage of a rowdy first year. By the way, I never thought to ask; do you have your wand with you?”

Smiling in obvious pride, the only Potter child quickly pulled his slightly crooked wand from his the pocket of his robes. Grasping the wand in hand, he proudly proclaimed, “Let a wizard and his wand never be parted.” His smile faltered when his noticed the flinch from the older man. “Is something wrong, Uncle Remus?”

“N-no, Harry, nothing,” denied Remus. “It's just that saying. I’m sure you didn't know, but during the war with You-Know-Who that was something his followers used to preach. A protest, they would say, against Azkaban.”

Harry's youthful features clouded – either at the mention of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or the dreaded wizard’s prison, Remus did not know – and his eyes seemed to drift about the room. Just as the older man was about to apologize for bringing either of them up, the first year Ravenclaw spoke in barely a whisper.

Not catching it, Remus asked, “I'm sorry?”

“Were they wrong?” asked a more confident Harry. “About the wands, I mean. Were they wrong? I hear dad complaining about Azkaban all the time; he says it's criminal what they do there. What the Dementors do.” There was a sudden chill that went up the boy's spine, as though he were recalling every nasty thing he had heard about that particular abomination of magic and life.

“Azkaban _is_ a horrible place,” agreed Remus cautiously, the man choosing his words carefully. “But You-Know-Who's supporters meant more by that saying than a simple punishment from Azkaban – having your wand snapped. They used it as justification for their crimes against Muggles – they said the Muggles would take our wands; would take away our magic.”

Unknown to the older man, it took a great deal of effort for the young eleven-year-old not to ask again: were they wrong? The youth's experiences at a Muggle school once again came to his mind. However, knowing his uncle would not understand his meaning, Harry simply nodded and said he understood when really he did not. As anxious as his nephew was to move away from such a topic, although for a vastly different reason, Remus nodded his head and, with a smile, gestured towards the row of dummies and said, “Well, let's see what you can do.”

Smiling happily at the chance to prove himself, Harry raised his Blackthorn and Ash wand and began. After nearly a week and a half of not using his wand, the young Ravenclaw was more than eager to get started and, as he watched the dummy split in half from a well-placed Severing Charm, Harry smiled.

It was good to be a wizard.

* * *

Without warning, the fireplace in the Potter's home of Gordric's Hollow burst into flames. Instead of the normal flame colors of red and orange one might expect, however, the fire was a shade of harlequin green. After only a few seconds, brightly colored green fire flashed and in its place was a man. Lightly dusting his vibrantly colored robes of the residual soot left behind by his means of travel, the Potter family's visitor only had time to take a single step forward before he was met with two matching set of emerald colored eyes.

Scratching the back of his head sheepishly, Sirius Black let out an awkward sort of laugh that hinted at his nervousness before, hesitantly, saying, “Merry Christmas?”

Lily Potter, the image of self-control at the moment, pinched the bridge of her nose in a vain attempt to forestall the burgeoning headache that was sure to come. “Sirius,” she spoke evenly. “I thought you would be here hours ago. You said you would help prepare the food.”

“About that,” laughed Sirius, his eyes darting between the annoyed mother, Lily, and silent son, Harry, standing before him. “There was an unexpected rush at the shop. Madam Malkin all but begged me to stay behind and help. Really, do you think I would ever dress like this,” he gestured towards his clothes, “Any more than I would have to?”

This, it seemed, lightened the mood because the Potter wife's lips began twitching that way they did when she was repressing a smile. “I suppose not,” she conceded. “What color is that, anyway? Lilac?”

“Mauve, maybe?” offered at broadly grinning Harry at her side.

“Lavender,” corrected Sirius in despair. “At least that's what Malkin said. I prefer to go with 'ugly' and leave it at that.” Casting his curious gray eyes about the room, the Potter family's den, the man seemed to be searching for something, or someone. “Where's Remus? James?”

“Uncle Remus is in the kitchen,” answered Harry. “Dad is...” The first year Hogwarts student trailed off as his eyes drifted over to the nearby window. Following the boy's gaze, Sirius noticed two things: first, the heavy snowfall that was typical of the twenty-fifth of December and second, the sun had gone down long ago.

“James is still at the Ministry, I take it.” Despite the phrasing, both Sirius and Lily knew it was not a question. Ever since... _that night_ all those years ago, on the day You-Know-Who fell, James Potter had well and truly thrown himself into his work as an Auror. While everyone, even the young Harry, had a good idea why, it did nothing to ease the feelings brought on from the man's many absences year round; he had even missed Christmas completely two years ago. “Maybe he's just running a little late like always?” comforted the outcast Black.

“Hopefully,” sighed a resigned Lily. Within seconds, however, she brightened once more and said, “So how have your holidays been so far? Any letters?”

“From family?” asked a bemused Sirius Black. “I'm disowned, remember? I only have, what, three or four family members left? Cassiopeia Black and Lucretia Prewett are fine, but I received a charming letter from Andromeda this morning with some good news: it seems dear old Uncle Cygnus is bed ridden again! She did not know why, but a healer was called in from Saint Mungos Hospital. She volunteers there; that's how she knows.”

“I would give by best wishes, but you might hex me for it,” remarked Lily dryly. The giddy expression on Sirius' face spoke volumes of the man's disdain for his _dear_ uncle. “Chances of recovery?”

“Considering this is his fifth visit from a healer since June, hopefully low,” Breaking into a smile, Sirius added, “Now _that_ would be a Christmas present, wouldn't it?”

Rolling her eyes at one of her husband's closest friends, Lily made no comment. “I think I'll go see how Remus is doing on dinner. It should not be much longer.” Saying nothing more, the red head made her way deeper into the house and towards the kitchen.

The silent until now Harry Potter made to follow her, but was stopped by the hand on his shoulder. “Not so fast, young one,” said the boy's god-father. “Don't you want your present?”

“We don't open presents until later tonight,” reminded Harry. “Besides, my mum told me not to accept any present from you, ever, before she has had a chance to examine it.”

His face faltering comically at that admission, Sirius was quick to recover. “Come, now! I know you're going to like it!”

Harry was saved from giving his reply by a shout from down the hall: “Sirius Black get in here and help with these dishes!”

“Yes, Mistress!” called back the now enslaved Sirius Black. The man started his way towards the kitchen, all the while muttering about house-elves and mounting heads on walls. Although whatever the two had in common, Harry did not know. Shaking his head at his god-father's attitude, Harry was about to follow him, but again found his attention diverted. Much as it had for Sirius, the Potter family's fireplace exploded in a burst of activity. Turning to meet the flames, Harry's emerald colored eyes reflected that of the harlequin green colored fire. As always, within seconds, the flames were gone and in their place was red.

One of Harry's earliest memories, from even before his time at that Muggle school, was of his father about to leave for work. Harry, his father and his mother had been enjoying breakfast one morning when, like always, James Potter had looked down at his Muggle wrist watch – a gift from his wife. Noting the time, James had stood up, ruffled his son's hair, kissed his wife, swallowed a piece of toast whole, and made his way for the coat rack by the fireplace.

Harry, too young to understand where he was really going, had asked him what he was doing in barely comprehendible gibberish. With a smile that could not seem to decide if it was being charming or dashing, James Potter had said, “Off to hunt the bad guys. Now be a strong boy for your mother.” Then, without another word, he slipped on the long red coat of a Ministry of Magic Auror before disappearing in an explosion of green fire.

Even after all these years - after all the missed Christmas holidays and late birthday parties, after Harry showed himself to be more like his mother and preferring to read than play pranks or fly a broom, after showing that Harry was more his mother's son than his father's - the sight of that flowing red coat always filled the Potter son with pride. “That is my father,” he could boast; not that he would. In fact, the only difference between now and the reminiscences of a young boy was the bright and flashy golden badge that stood out on his robes: the markings of an Auror captain. Yes, standing there in his Auror uniform, James Potter looked all of the “bad guy” hunter he had promised his son. However, the second that red coat touched the nearby coat rack things changed, because without it he was just a man and today, like many others before it, he was late for dinner.

“Mum’s angry,” remarked Harry needlessly.

“Good day to you, too,” greeted James with a sigh. “ 'How was your day, dad?' Fine, fine, son; and yours?” Another sigh. “Is that too much to ask for?”

“When you're late for dinner it is. Even Sirius beat you today and that's just sad.” Pausing for a moment, Harry examined his father's clothing. Devoid of his red coat, James Potter did not look like much; his untamable hair, much like Harry's own, was a mess and his circle-framed glasses looked askew on his nose. Over all, he looked much like Harry expected to look when he got older and the young Ravenclaw was once again thankful that at least his own glasses were square framed.

“What?” asked a concerned James after noticing his son's searching look. “Did I not get all the soot off? If I go in there,” he waved towards the kitchen. “Late _and_ filthy, your mother might just hex me.”

Grinning with sudden inspiration, Harry said, “Oh, no. Nothing like that. I was just noticing how many gray hairs you have. Is that normal for someone your age? Being an old man must be tough.”

The horrified look that came across the Potter family's patriarch, not to mention the terrified look he sent the nearest reflective surface, threatened to send his son into hysterical laughter, but the cross yet joking look that followed it lessened the blow. “I expected better from a Ravenclaw,” huffed James indignantly. “House of the witty, ha!”

Both father and son shared a comfortable laugh as they made their way deeper into the house. In the Potter's dining room, Remus and Sirius were busy setting down everyone’s plate – including one for James; apparently they had hoped he would show. James was about to go help them when a voice stopped him cold in his tracks: “James Potter!”

Whirling around with the grace and skill of a trained Ministry Auror, James Potter quickly raised his hands in the air in the universal sign of surrender. “Now, Lily,” he began with evident fear in his voice. “I was just held up by paper work. Most everyone took the whole day off and--” That was as far as he got.

“Which is what you should have done!” Her face flushing red with anger almost deep enough to match her hair. Lily Potter was truly a fearsome woman and her husband stood no chance against her. As he watched his parent’s trade words – scolding comments from Lily and feeble excuses from James – Harry could not help but notice the grins that were forming on both their faces; they actually seemed to be having fun. This was proven correct when James suddenly burst out into laughter and, instead of the scathing punishment one might expect, Lily also broke out into a slight laugh.

“Stop squawking and help me with the food,” gripped an irate Sirius Black to his god-son. Turning around, Harry watched as the man seemed to be dividing his concentration by trying to use numerous levitation charms and bring in all of the food at one time.

Eventually everything settled down. When the married Potter couple finally collected themselves and started helping to set the table, the martial might of Harry's mother was obvious. Not only did she manage to save the various dishes from Sirius Black's failing charm work, but she also succeeded in getting everyone organized and the table set. Forks and spoons, knives and plates, and napkins a plenty. In less than thirty minutes, everyone was already seated and Christmas dinner had begun.

As it was with every family dinner – because that is what they all were: a family – conversation was in equal measure to the food shared. James and Sirius relayed tales of their adventures at Hogwarts, even if Remus had to remind them both that they had told most of their stories already. Lily related her recent business with Mulpepper's Apothecary, something only Remus and Harry seemed interested in. Even Harry, after prompting from everyone, began telling stories of his classes. Harry was particular proud when his mother praised him for his work in Professor Snape's class, something Remus agreed with, but the other two remained silent on.

A couple hours later, a bloated Harry Potter began leaning back in his chair absolutely convinced he would never be able to eat another bite in his life. As Remus and Lily began clearing off the table and plates with liberal use of the Scouring Charm – _Scourgify!_ \- Sirius started giving the youngest Potter strange looks. Suddenly on alert, Harry began thinking back on all the pranks his overly excitable god-father had pulled on him. Around the time Harry began wondering if he could make it to the stairs before the older man could pull out his wand, Sirius asked, “Are you looking forward to presents?”

The escape plan leaving his mind, Harry was actually confused by that. In his younger days, his mother had insisted on big Christmases, which included mountains of presents; mostly Muggle toys when he was very young. As he got older and began asking for more books – combined with how little Christmas was actually celebrated in the wizarding world - the extravagance of the holiday had lessened. The past few years it had become customary for each adult to only get one present for the only child in their small group. Most of the time there was little to no ceremony involved with any of it beyond the dinner; they did not even put up a tree anymore, not counting his mother’s decorative fern with a single bauble in the kitchen.

“I bet you're just itching to skip to the presents,” commented Sirius.

“It better not be another set of Dungbombs,” warned Harry. “I didn't want it in the first place, but even if I did mum confiscated them.”

“A slight mishap,” said Sirius with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I should have given them to you in private. This time it will be much better.” His god-son only glared. “Fine! No pranking gear.”

“No brooms either,” added Harry skeptically. “You know I don't play Quidditch.”

Both James and Sirius flinched at this one. When Sirius began muttering about “wasted childhoods” and “crazy Ravenclaws” James was quick to reassure: “It's not anything Quidditch related; your mother talked us out of that.”

“It's not any music, is it?” At his father and god-father's confused look, Harry explained, “I know that at least Sirius is a fan of Weird Sisters.”

“Really, Sirius?” asked a surprised James Potter, turning on his friend. “You’re a fan of boy bands now?”

“They're actually pretty good! Besides, all the kids like 'em these days.”

“You're not a kid,” reminded both James and Harry. Sirius only sulked.

Taking pity on his god-father, Harry changed the subject, “So what did you get? If it's not pranking stuff, Quidditch related, or a Weird Sisters robe, I don't know.”

At his son's admission, James Potter gave a smirk highly reminiscent of the ones he would often favor Severus Snape in their school days: extraordinarily pleased with himself. Reaching into some inner pocket on the breast of his robes, the Potter family patriarch withdrew... paper? His smirk only widening – who knew that was possible? - at the Ravenclaw boy's apparent confusion, James set three pieces of paper on the dinner table. It was only then that Harry recognized them for what they were: tickets. Leaning forward to read what was written on them, Harry found himself reading in tandem with his father's explanation: “All-England Wizarding Dueling Competition, Semifinals.”

Moving so fast it was a surprise his neck did not snap, Harry looked up to meet the now smirking duo of James Potter and Sirius Black. His eyes blinking in what could only be stunned amazement, Harry could only find it in himself to say one thing. “How?” he asked, clueless. It was a valid question. The wizarding world lacked any consistent forms of entertainment outside of Quidditch, which was seasonal anyway. Tickets to something like this, a national event like this, would have been expensive this late into the competition. “How did you get these?”

“It was mostly Sirius, actually,” admitted James, causing his friend to buff up in pride like the over-grown turkey they had all just ate.

Sirius looked like he was close to gloating and, sure enough, he did, “It was no trouble at all,” he began casually. “One of the regulars at Malkin's - a pretty woman, naturally – was so taken with my charm she just gave them to me. Tried to ask me to it, she did, but I said, ‘No, miss, family comes first.’ She was heartbroken, naturally, but it was all for my god-son.”

It was a relief for his sanity when Harry realized he was not the only one giving his god-father incredulous looks. James, who was also staring at the other man with suspicion, said, “Is that how it happened? I seem to recall that when you first told me about this, the patron was an old man whose grand-children would be out of town. And he still made us pay for the tickets, even if it was only half.”

Visibly deflating – although he might have just exhaled – Sirius Black fixed his friend with a weak glare. “Why do you always ruin my fun? How's my god-son supposed to believe I'm a lady killer if you always do that.” His gray eyes taking on a strange sort of gleam, he added, “When he starts dating, who do you want him turning to? You or his dashing god-father?”

“Me, naturally,” James replied without hesitation. With pride, he continued, “I am a master at wooing women.”

“It took you nearly seven years to get one girl to say yes to a Firewhisky in Hogsmeade,” reminded Sirius with a grin. James deflated. Feeling vicious, the gray eyed man commented lightly, “Even then she barely said yes.”

“But I did say yes,” interrupted a rather stern sounding voice. At once, all three males at the table turned as one to be met with the familiar sight of a glaring Lily Potter. “And at least he managed to find somebody, unlike another I could mention.”

Sirius slumped in defeat while James perked up. Remus Lupin only shook his head at his friend’s antics before taking a seat next to Harry. Smiling at her work of not only shutting Sirius up, but defending her husband, Lily turned to her son and said, “Now, Harry, does this all seem like something you'd enjoy going to?”

Nodding eagerly, the young eleven-year-old was quick to say, “Of course! A chance to go see a professional duel! It'll be great. I've never had a chance to see a duel before,” The young boy missed both his mother and father's involuntary flinches. “I might even get some ideas for new spells to learn.”

“I don't know about that,” laughed Remus from his side. “I doubt you'll see many spells a Hogwarts first year could safely use.”

“Still! I could learn a lot. Besides,” he added shyly. “It'll probably be wicked to watch. So when is it?”

Smiling fondly at his enthusiasm, Lily said, “The match is set for the twenty-eighth of December, but I might not be able to let you go.” At her son's horrified look, she smiled deviously. “I can’t let you go if you don’t finish your dinner.” She sent a pointed look to Harry Christmas dinner; of which he had not finished his greens.

“But if I finish my dinner I can go?”  The young boy wanted assurances. When his mother nodded in confirmation, Harry wasted no time: swallowing large mouthfuls with the aid of his pumpkin juice to avoid the bad taste. By the time he finally presented his plate for inspection, it had been wiped clean completely.

Harry had no idea why everyone was suddenly laughing, but he did know one thing: he would be going to that tournament.

* * *

The couple of days leading up to the semifinals of the All-England Wizarding Dueling Competition were amongst the most nerve racking of Harry James Potter’s young life, possibly even rivaling the wait earlier that same tear for his Hogwarts acceptance letter. Harry’s excitement for the match was so great that by the time the twenty-eighth came around, the young boy’s parents and uncles were simply glad they would not have to hear his anxious sighs anymore. More than that, however, they were all glad they would no longer be forced to hear about the competition’s long history.

Starting the morning after Christmas, Harry decided to do his Hogwarts house of Ravenclaw proud by researching the well-respected competition’s long history, as well as leaf through the 1991 year’s current roster. As a result, Harry took it upon himself to inform his entire family about some of the most eventful duel’s in the competition’s history ranging from the Chocolate Frog Card worthy victory of Alberta Toothill against the tournament’s favorite and reigning champion, Samson Wiblin, in the 1430 finals, all the way up to the most recent match where fan(-girl) favorite competitor, famed author Gilderoy Lockhart, was taken out by a simple Tickling Hex.

The worst of it, by far, was when Sirius Black idly commented one day over lunch that he would help the first year identify the contestants spell work since they were likely to only be using silent casting. Harry, appalled by the very idea of not even knowing what spells the duelist might use, soon buried himself in all manner of spell books, attempting to memorize the name, wand movements, and identifying features of any spell he could find that were likely to be used in a duel by full grown wizards and witches. Ordinarily this would not mean much, but when the young eleven year old began asking for some fairly advanced charms books to read, Lily Potter had taken to hexing the boy’s god-father whenever possible.

So it was that on the morning of the twenty-eighth of December everyone currently gathered at the Potter’s home in Godric’s Hollow was unnaturally pleased to greet a new day; none more so than Harry Potter and Sirius Black, for obvious reasons. Standing at the house’s entrance – and exit – both were already completely dressed and their breakfast long forgotten from their minds as they waited anxiously for everyone else.

The younger of the two, Harry was dressed in a fairly plain set of blue robes chosen by his mother, and was animatedly describing his favorite of the duel’s he had read up on, “And, just as he thinks she’s done for and the Stunning Spell is on his lips, Toothill surprises everyone and dodges it unleashing a well-aimed Blasting Curse.” Harry made a theatrical lunge with his wand, miming the motion required to cast that particular spell. “Wiblin is so shocked his Shield Charm barely makes it up, but it buckles anyway.”

“It sounds like a good match,” agreed Sirius, sporting his much preferred dark colored pin-striped wizard’s suit. The outcast Black watched the detailed wrist movements the boy before him mimed and, with a grin, continued, “But look at you! Half a semester as a Ravenclaw and you think you already know everything. I bet you don’t even know what the incantation for the Blasting Curse is.”

With a smirk at his god-father, Harry proudly said, “ ‘Confringo’, said with an ‘e’, of course.”

“Harry James Potter,” shouted Lily as she and her husband walked into the room. “I know you did not just say the incantation for the Blasting Curse with a wand in your hand!” Eying the Blackthorn and Ash wand held firmly in his hand, Harry realized his mistake before pocketing the wand and muttering a quick apology. Sending her son a halfhearted glare, Lily turned to her husband and said, “Now you boys be careful and, for Merlin’s sake, do not leave Harry alone with Sirius.”

Sirius’s indignant shout was ignored by all, as usual, but Harry was confused by his mother’s words. “You’re not coming, mum?” he asked. “And what about Uncle Remus?”

Kneeling down to eye level with her son, the red haired mother explained, “We’ve only got three tickets and since you’ve spent so much time with me on your break I thought I’d give you and your father some time together.” She gave the young boy a quick peck on the forehead before continuing, “As for Remus, he actually had an early job interview this morning, but he wishes you the best and hopes you enjoy yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” James was quick to add. “You get some quality time with dear ol’ dad and your lovable god-father. It’ll be great; no nagging adults today!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” muttered Harry to himself as his mother began yelling at her husband for “acting like a child”. Deciding to intervene, Harry said, “Don’t worry, mum, I won’t let them get up to too much mischief.”

“Thank you,” breathed a now radiant looking Lily Potter, smiling at her beautiful baby boy. “At least I can depend on you.”

Sirius, who was now edging himself away from the green eyed people in the room, moved towards best mate and whispered, “If it wasn’t for the hair, I wouldn’t see a resemblance. Are you sure he’s your son, James? Is it even possible for a child to get nothing from one of the parents?”

Sighing mournfully – read: dramatically – James lamented, “I have no son! Lily brainwashed him…”

“I heard that!” was the simultaneous shouts of Lily and Harry Potter, sending the room’s other occupants into fits of laughter. Flashing the two a quick glare before turning to her son, Lily said, “Now I want you to have fun, but don’t listen to anything your god-father says, okay? Stay close to your father; don’t sit too close to the arena during the matches, and--“

“Lily, calm down,” James tried to reassure his wife with a warm hand on her shoulder. “We might have a few laughs about it, but you know me and Sirius won’t let anything happen to him.” Turning to face his son, James asked, “So are you ready to go, Harry?” Stealing a quick glance at his mother, who looked fine with it, Harry nodded resolutely in reply. Smiling down at his son, James sent a questioning look towards Sirius – who nodded back – before sending his wife one last reassuring look and reaching into his pockets and withdrawing… a tattered looking stuffed bear?

Catching his son’s confused look, James explained, “This is the Portkey that came with the tickets. It’s a form of magical transportation that will take us to right where the matches are being held.” When his son simply sent an “I already knew that,” look James actually pouted and said, “I just thought I’d explain it. They’re not exactly common place things, you know?” Harry just rolled his eyes and Sirius laughed. “Sorry I tried,” sniffed James dramatically. More seriously to his wife, he said, “We’ll be back after the match is over so don’t worry; Harry will be safe.”

“Who says I’m worried about Harry?” asked Lily with a shrug of her shoulders. “It’s you two that are more likely to get into trouble.” At James and Sirius mock astonished looks, she laughed and said to her son, “Be careful, Harry, and make sure to have fun.”

“Yeah, yeah,” mumbled Sirius Black as he walked up to his friend, James, with his silver pocket watch out. “The Portkeys only good for another fifteen minutes so we might want to hurry.” That said, the outcast Black took hold of one of the loosely hanging bear’s legs that were only held on by a few bits of thread. James nodded in agreement before grabbing on tight to the bear’s head. Harry, with one last smile directed towards his mother, grabbed one of the sturdier looking of the bear’s arms.

“Is everybody ready?” asked James. When both Harry and Sirius nodded in the affirmative, James, perfectly serious, said, “Fiddlesticks.” Before Harry could wonder about the odd choice of trigger phrase he was suddenly reminded that he had never used a Portkey only seconds before he felt it. Feeling like someone had stabbed him in the gut before quickly pulling on his navel, Harry was violently pulled belly first as his feet lifted off the ground. He could feel himself being squished in-between his dad and god-father as they were all pulled through a whirling spiral of screaming winds and brief flashes of color. As suddenly as it had started, however, it ended and Harry felt his legs – and knees and head – crash into what was now a stone floor.

His head reeling and knees aching from the impact, Harry tried to stand and was very thankful for the hand offering him assistance. Smiling mischievously, Sirius Black said, “Never used one of those before, huh? Same thing happened to me my first time; bothered my mother like you wouldn’t believe.” Laughing at a memory apparently, he added, “Used to say it was ‘unbecoming’ of a true wizard.”

Considering what Harry knew of Sirius’ family – which was little, admittedly – he thought Sirius’ mum was probably just being a strict parent. Speaking of which… Harry looked around to find his own parent and found his dad watching fondly as Sirius helped Harry to his feet. The emerald eyed Potter was about to comment when another voice broke in: “Captain!” shouted a red robbed figure that was quickly approaching them. “Captain Potter, sir! I didn’t know you would be helping with security. I thought this was your day off.”

Turning to greet the newcomer, James met the man with a smile. “Auror Savage,” he greeted. “Good to see you, but I’m not on duty today. I’m taking my son,” James pointed to Harry. “To see the semifinals today.”

Auror Savage looked over the group of three, nodding to each in greeting, before turning back to his superior and saying, “Good to see you anyway, sir. Seems the whole Auror’s Office is turning out for this one.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Savage seemed surprised. “One of our own made it to the finals this year: Dawlish, from the Minister for Magic’s security. It’s got the whole Office is a tizzy today and Scrimgeour even assigned Captain Robards as head of security for the event. There was even talk of Minister Fudge making an appearance, but I haven’t seen ‘em. I’m surprised you haven’t heard much about it, but I guess you have been going out of country quite a bit lately.” Savage completely missed the panicked look that overcame his superior’s face and the questioning looks his companions were sending them both. “Anyway, I best be off. There’s another group coming in fifteen minutes down the hall. Enjoy the match, sir.”

“What’s this about going out of country?” asked Sirius as soon as the other Auror was out of earshot. “Lily never mentioned anything and if she didn’t say anything about it than that means she doesn’t know.”

James Potter looked stony, like he really did not want to talk about it, and even Harry could feel the thick tension in the air. “There was a lead out of Bulgaria,” said James shortly. Before either of them could ask, though, he added, “About Pettigrew. It turned out to be nothing so I didn’t bring it up. Don’t tell Lily.” Everyone got quiet then; they all knew about James Potter’s obsession with catching his former friend, Peter Pettigrew. Harry thought he could understand a desire to catch someone who betrayed your friendship and trust like that.

Sirius, it seemed, wanted to say more, but Harry spoke first, “So who’s Dawlish?” Both older men sent him strange looks, so Harry continued, “That Auror before said Dawlish was dueling today, right? I didn’t know who we were going to watch so now I’m curious.”

Sirius sent his god-son a halfhearted glare for the obvious change in subject, but James sent his son a grateful look before saying, “John Dawlish; he’s a talented Auror from the office. Scary good, he was one of our best before Minister Fudge snatched him up with a pay hike and had my boss, Rufus Scrimgeour, assign him to the Minister for Magic’s personal security. I’ve met him – Dawlish, I mean – a few times and he’s an okay sort, but I’ve never seen him duel before.”

“He’s a glorified bodyguard,” remarked Sirius dismissively, apparently deciding to ignore James’ most recent hunt for Peter Pettigrew. “How good can he be?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” commented Harry cheerfully, his father nodding in agreement. As the group of three started onwards, Harry took the time to survey his surroundings. They had used a Portkey to travel from the Potter’s home in Godric’s Hollow and, if the dark and dank atmosphere of their current location was any indication, they had certainly traveled a long ways.

The air smelled of damp stone and mold and was dreadfully cold. The hall the group found themselves walking down was narrow and was only large enough for one or two people at a time, but they all found themselves following the faint drum of noise from down on the other end where a set of metal double doors could be seen with another red robbed figure standing guard – this one a woman, judging by the shape. Upon reaching this woman, James Potter was quick to turn over their tickets, which the robbed figure eyed briefly before saluting and ushering them forward with a, “Right this way, cap’n.”

Sirius Black wasted no time in walking inside, but James, just as he was about to do the same, stopped as Harry did. Turning to the Auror standing guard at the door, the Potter son asked, “Where are we, exactly, ma'am?”

The Auror sent a quick look towards Harry’s father before replying, “The Muggle experts said ‘Kent,’ if that helps you, boy.” With a shrug of her shoulders, the Auror added, “This is the basement of a building, for what I heard. The Obliviator Squads are on double shifts to keep the Muggles out of here and there are a few Muggle Repellent Charms spread about for good measure. The Ministry had to hire on extra Charms Masters to expend the room inside here,” She gestured towards the double doors. “Just to fit everybody.” Harry, nodding in satisfaction of having his curiosity sated, thanked the female Auror before turning to go inside. James sent the Auror a thankful nod and smile before following his son.

It became readily apparent, merely by stepping inside the door, that there was more than a simple expansion charm involved; the room was positively massive, even larger in size then the Hogwarts courtyard to Harry’s youthful eyes. The stands and other seating areas were already packed with various witches and wizards in colorful robes and were all angled around to get a better view of the open field before them. The field itself was similar in size to the one used in Muggle football and was shaped in a long rectangular fashion.

Harry was struggling to keep up with his father as his eyes shot every which way they could, taking in the numerous sights around him. James, meanwhile, focused on catching up to Sirius, who was chatting with someone. “James, good boy!” shouted a wheezy sounding voice, even catching Harry’s albeit divided attention. The man was of considerable age, being even older looking than Harry’s own father, and looked rather portly with white hair that could scarcely be seen from beneath his odd looking Muggle bowler’s hat. “James,” the man wheezed again. “It’s been so long.”

“Elphias,” greeted James in kind. ”It has been awhile.” Catching his son eying the man speculatively, James said, “Elphias, this is my son, Harry. Harry, this is Mr. Elphias Doge, I know him from the Ministry.”

The newly introduced Elphias Doge gave a wheezy sounding laugh before saying, “I think you know me from more than that, James. Why, back during—“ He seemed to notice the rather pointed look the younger men were sending him and stopped. Doge’s eyes flickered to Harry momentarily before a light of understanding came to them. Turning to Harry, he smiled and said, “Well met, Harry.”

“You as well, Mr. Doge,” replied Harry, being nice. Pleasantries and introduction sorted, the group of three plus Elphias Doge made their way towards their assigned seats. Coincidentally, Doge was only a few spots down from them. Taking his own seat in-between his dad and god-father, Harry found himself captivated by all the sights and sounds around him. Advertisements for different wizarding brands floated around the makeshift dueling field in odd collections of color changing glowing balls of light proclaiming everything from: “Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans – A Risk With Every Mouthful!” and “Twilfitt and Tattings Robes” with a Diagon Alley street address below. Harry was amused to even see one for his mother’s employer, “Mr. Mulpepper’s Apothocary.”

All around the dueling area there was hushed and quiet toned conversations mixed in with the excited chatter of everyone else. Harry had originally tried to strain himself to hear bits of it all, but quickly gave up under the sheer volume of it. Young looking witches dressed in bright greens and purples passed around the stands handing out drinks, candies, and other edibles. When one of them came around, Sirius got a hot cup of coffee – the witch simply pulled it from the large box and tray hanging from around her neck – while Harry got a Cauldron Cake and James Potter helped himself to a bag of Licorice Wands.

For nearly an hour, the three ate – or drank in Sirius’s case - their treats as they laughed at the various people who had decided to dress in Muggle for the event. “They must not have known where the match was being held,” explained James as he pointed towards an older man wearing what appeared to be an old fashioned pair of Muggle women’s bloomers for trousers with a sharp looking polka doted vest.

When at last the steady stream of people coming through the door slowed to a tiny trickle, the lights around the massive room seemed to dim. A call of “Lumus Maxima” brought everyone’s attention to a man walking towards the center of the dueling field. To Harry’s eyes the man looked to have at one point been very fit and strong, but that time was long ago and he now sported a rather large gut. His bright blonde hair and what appeared to be equally bright blue eyes matched well with his almost pristine white robes and dress slacks.

“Ludo Bagman,” whistled Sirius upon seeing the man. “He sure has come a long way from being the star Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps.”

James Potter “hummed” in agreement before adding, “That’s what happens when you get hit in the head too much: they put you in charge of your own Ministry department. Department of Magical Games and Sports for him.”

“Not bad for a man charged with being a spy,” laughed Sirius Black.

“Spy?” asked a confused Harry, suddenly interested. Being a spy sounded more like Auror work than something a Quidditch player would do. “Bagman was a spy?”

James sent his friend a reproachful look, but Sirius shrugged it away casually. Rolling his eyes, James turned to his son and said, “It doesn’t really make any difference if you know. During the war there was a follower of You-Know-Who’s named Augustus Rookwood,” Both James and Sirius missed the sudden panicked look on Harry’s face. “Rookwood was a spy in the Ministry; very likeable, everybody loved him. When it came out he was a Death Eater everyone who was close to him was brought in under charges of collusion, the Bagman family included.”

“But they dismissed it soon after,” continued a bored looking Sirius. “Said that if anything was shared with Rookwood it was to a family friend, not to a Death Eater.” Surprised by the new information about the man – the fact he was actually well liked most surprising - who had written the book still in Harry’s possession back at home, but too nervous about the subject in question, Harry nodded his head but said nothing and was very thankful when Bagman started:

“Welcome ladies and gentleman…” greeted Ludo Bagman using what could only be the Amplifying Charm – _Sonorus_ , his Ravenclaw sorted side supplied – to allow himself to be heard over the still buzzing crowd of spectators. “Welcome to the 1991 All England Dueling Competition’s semifinal match!” The crowd roared in answer. Smiling broadly, Bagman went on, “We’ve all seen some excellent and truly masterful spell-work this year, but only one competitor can go on to the New Year’s Eve final match against our reigning champion.”

Everyone exploded in applause and cheers; smiling, Harry joined as well. Waving his hands to quiet the crowd good naturedly, Bagman said, “Now without delay, let me introduce our competitors here today.” Ludo Bagman threw out his hands dramatically, thrusting both into the air with his palms facing the sky. Gesturing to the left side of the field, he said, “Representing our esteemed Aurors and one of our Minister for Magic’s personal security is veteran Auror JOHN DAWLISH!!” The room once more broke out into applause as a tough and serious looking wizard wearing a brown set of Auror robes bowed to each side of the crowd, his short and wiry grayish brown hair whipping around with the motion.

Now Harry was very interested; he had heard about Dawlish, but had heard nothing about who he would be facing. Smiling widely in the center of the field, Bagman pointed towards the right and introduced the other duelist, saying, “In a bit of a surprise move, out next competitor is also under the employ of our Ministry. A senior employee for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, I present to you WALDEN MACNAIR!!” A tall and strong looking man with a thin mustache and shaggy looking mane of short black hair stood stoically. He wore a long black coat over an ensemble of traditional looking dark dress robes and nodded his head stiffly in each direction of the field. The most surprising thing, however, had nothing to do with the man himself, but the crowd. While they had burst into applause at the calling of Dawlish’s name, there was a much more reserved cheer for Macnair with a short burst of polite clapping.

Turning to his father to ask what was the matter, Harry was surprised even more by the narrow look of blatant hate his dad was sending Macnair. James Potter’s eyes were narrowed into tiny slits and his hands were clutching tight to the armrest of his chair. Sirius looked to be in much the same state. The others in the crowd did not seem anywhere near as bothered by this man, most seemingly only disinterested in his unremarkable job title. Elphias Doge, Harry could see, seemed to share James and Sirius’s dislike for the man. Hesitantly, Harry asked, “What’s going on?”

Only now stopping from glaring at Macnair, James Potter turned to his son and met the questioning emerald eyes. Deeply exhaling, no doubt to calm himself, James said, “That man down there was arrested shortly after the war ended and had He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s mark on his forearm,” With a deep frown across his face, James added, “He claimed You-Know-Who put him under the Imperius Cure and was released, but I know better. Walden Macnair was a Death Eater.”

Sirius, to Harry’s other side, scoffed. “This isn’t a duel,” he hissed. “This is a live fire reenactment! Auror versus Death Eater.”

Harry shifted his eyes between the two men in disbelief. Were they serious? Looking down in the dueling field below, watching as the two competitors walked over to meet Ludo Bagman in the center, the inquisitive part of him that was sorted into Hogwarts’ Ravenclaw House was hard a work comparing the two. Dawlish, the Auror, walked with a sense of purpose and determination that came only to those who were confident and certain in themselves. Macnair, the former Death Eater, moved at a much more relaxed pace, but in such a predatory manner that made it easy to believe this man had once fought at the side of the greatest dark wizard of at least the last century. Overall, Harry decided, Macnair looked the more imposing of the two despite his opponent being a Ministry trained Auror.

The two duelists met Bagman and the three exchanged a few words neither Harry nor anyone else could hear. Nodding his head to each man in turn, Bagman lifted his wand to his own throat and, clearly to everyone, said, “Sonoros.” With his reapplication of the Amplifying Charm in place, Bagman continued, “These two supremely talented gentlemen will soon be engaged in a traditional and respectful duel. Victor is determined by either loss of conciseness or other manners of incapacitation; no seconds are present. The use of dark magic, irreversible spell effects, and the transfiguration of on-looking spectators is prohibited.”

Turning to the former Death Eater, Bagman asked, “Walden Macnair, are you ready?” Macnair nodded in confirmation.

To the other, the Auror, Bagman asked, “John Dawlish, are you ready?” Dawlish gave an inaudible, to everyone else, yes.

“Gentleman,” began Bagman grandiosely. “Assume the position!” Each duelist raised their respective wands in salute to the other, leveling the instruments of their magical will in-between their eyes. “Bow!” Each gave a shallow yet still respectful bow, acknowledging the other as a worthy adversary. “About face and ten spaces. Begin on my mark.” The two swept up in a ram-rod straight posture before turning on their heels, facing their backs to their soon-to-be-opponent, and began walking, talking long and measured strides. Ludo Bagman himself made his way out of the field, walking back wards as he counted down from ten with each of the duelist’s steps. “Ten, nine, eight!” he called out.

Macnair and Dawlish kept their even pace.

“Seven, six, five!”

Harry, like many others, moved to the edge of their seats; everyone ready for the duel to begin.

“Four, three, two!”

The duelists were now nine paces away from one another, a minuscule distance for a skilled wizard. Bagman was no longer backing out of the field slowly and was now running.

“One!” screamed a frantic Bagman, rushing out of the field.

John Dawlish and Walden Macnair came to a stop before turning in place to face their opponent. Each raised their wand in their respective fighting stance.

“Begin!”

Harry was so anxious for the duel to begin he almost missed the very first spell cast in it when he blinked. Dawlish, the more formally trained of the two competitors, had shot his wand out with the ease of long practice and fired. A ball of red and orange fire formed at the tip of his wand and launched itself at Macnair like a burning Muggle cannonball. It was only Harry’s pre-match research that allowed him to recognize the use of the tournament’s signature spell: the Blas-- “That was the Blasting Curse,” explained Sirius Black needlessly from Harry’s side, intent on naming all silently casted spells as promised.

“I know,” hissed a distracted Harry as he watched Dawlish’s timely fired spell only narrowly miss its mark when Macnair slide to the side just in time. Not to be out done so easily, the former Death Eater lifted his wand to return fire. Without a sound or indication of any kind, the ground only inches away from Dawlish exploded in a concentrated ball of white light throwing up a shower of dirt. It was only barely, but from his reading, Harry recognized the _Expulso_ spell in action. “That was a—“ began James Potter.

“I know,” Harry hissed again.

Down in the field, the two duelist’s traded their respective spells in equal measure, turning the dirt covered landscape into a battlefield that looked more like the face of a wizard recovering from Dragon pox. Neither seemed to be particularly hindered by this development as they constantly kept moving to avoid the incoming spells as each sent their own spells at the other with the occasional change of things using their opponent’s chosen spell: Macnair a _Confringo_ , Dawlish an _Expulso_. Harry was beginning to wonder why both men tried the same two spells over and over again when it clearly was not working.

Seeing his son’s confused look, James smiled. “They’re trying to close the distance,” At his son’s brief sideways glance, he explained, “A duel at any great distance is a tough one; it’s harder to hit a moving target at ten paces then, say, four or five; it gives the enemy time to dodge or block your spell. Look,” James pointed to the men. “They’re moving closer to the center, you see?”

And, this time, Harry _did_ see. What had looked like two men simply moving to avoid a spell, the young Ravenclaw now realized, was actually two men slowly closing the distance between themselves. Following that line of thought, Harry thought it likely they were simply using the same spell while they did so to keep their enemy on guard and to conserve the surprise of their other spells. This tactic, however, was coming to a close because both men were no longer advancing and had instead begun strafing from left to right to avoid the oncoming explosions. Despite the closed distance, the two still insisted on using the same two spells. Looking to his father, the trained Auror, Harry was again rewarded with an answer:

“They’re gauging each other’s reaction times,” said James. “Trying to see how fast they need to move. Now it’s only a matter of which one will figure the other out first.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Ministry trained Auror was the first to deviate from the established pattern. Stopping suddenly, Dawlish swiftly took out an oncoming ball of _Confringo_ with a well-timed _Expulso_ , the two meeting in a big fiery explosion. Not wasting time, the brown coated man jabbed his wand forward; there was a flash of white-blue light only a second before a focused jet of water shot towards Macnair still momentarily blinded by quickly fading fire. Harry and his father and Sirius – and most everyone else - were on the edge of their seats. The jet of water was too close for him to evade; Macnair was struck. The water hit him in full force and exploded outwards much like an _Expulso_.

James Potter, far from being relieved to see the former Death Eater hit, looked disappointed. “I thought he had him there,” he sighed. “That was a great _Aqua Eructo_.”

“Should have closed the distance more,” commented Sirius. “Might have worked then; he wouldn’t have had time to raise a shield.”

Harry, confused by their negative comments on a clear hit, found his eyes going wide when the ball of water swirling around Macnair suddenly shot forward, back at Dawlish who only narrowly avoided the rushing torrent. Harry saw none of that, however, as his eyes were fixed on a still standing Macnair with a bright and transparent blue light surrounding him. A round of applause flooded the field at the timely use of the Shield Charm – _Protego_. Everyone, besides James and Sirius, seemed pleased with the skill of magic shown, but what followed next surprised everyone.

Instead of using any of the very powerful or advanced spells Harry had spent the past couple of days memorizing, Macnair seemed to laugh aloud. His hackles were only faintly heard about the stands and, seemingly to mock his out-witted opponent, raised his wand and yelled, again aloud, “ _Diffindo!_ ” The Severing Charm, of all spells, struck in a literal flash. Dawlish looked so unbothered by the use of a Hogwarts first year spell that he did not even move, merely shifting his body to avoid a critical hit. Macnair’s charm made no contact with the Auror’s skin and succeeded only in tearing strips of cloth from the man’s long brown coat.

Shrugging his shoulders casually at the failed attack, Dawlish was quick to respond – and more effectively, in Harry’s opinion. As a joke against his opponent, the Auror also called out his spell: “ _Bombarda Maxima_!” The empowered spell, stronger than any Harry had read of its kind, gave a brief flicker of white light before the area surrounding Macnair exploded; not in a ball of fire or from the force of an impact, but simply exploded in a flash of orange. The upturn of dirt and loose rocks was too great for the simple description of a small shower; no, the affect was more like a concentrated cloud of downward falling dirt and loose gravel the shrouded everything from sight.

Harry found himself shifting in his seat, trying in vain to see through the shade of upturned dirt. Without warning, however, the mist was broken by a concentrated torrent of pure air. A literal funnel of roaring wind shot out of the mist, clearing away to reveal a disheveled but otherwise fine looking Walden Macnair. His opponent across from him flicked away the rushing wind with a well-timed Shield Charm, but the torrent did not disappear. In fact, in time with a swift jerk of Macnair’s wand, the funnel seemed to sway like a whip and, having already dismissed his shield spell upon deflection, the Ministry trained Auror was unprepared for the blow. The cheers and gasps of the crowd came in time with the scream that tore the arena curtesy of John Dawlish as the biting air tore through his shoulder, sending a trickle of blood down his arm and onto his wand. Macnair’s grin, even from where Harry was sitting in the stands, looked absolutely delirious.

“That was one of the wind charms, right?” asked Sirius with a side-ways glance to the trained Auror near him.

James Potter nodded grimly. “The Ventus Hex, I believe,” he confirmed. “Like of a Duo or even Tria level power, though, and exceptionally well controlled to use it as a whip.” Despite the praising words, the Potter patriarch’s tone held nothing but bitter reluctance and repressed hate for the former Death Eater. Meanwhile, Harry watched in awe as Macnair twirled his whirling whip of controlled wind through the air like an expert before bringing it down once again on the injured Auror.

Dawlish barely had time to move and only narrowly avoided the hit as the funnel of compressed air bore down on where he had just been standing like a Muggle drill. Acting quickly, the Auror chanted with clenched teeth, “Defodio!” The so named Gouging Charm, ideal of planters and herbologists, had been ruthlessly aimed for its caster’s opponent’s legs and, instead of gouging out dirt as the spell was invented for, the spell gouged out Macnair’s left calf. If Dawlish had screamed, Macnair screeched in pain with the loss of his lower leg.

Flushed with his successful strike, Dawlish stood tall despite the flow of blood painting his hand and exposed shoulder red. Moving his wand to his other, not bleeding hand, the Ministry Auror gave his wand a few experimental flicks before aiming it calmly at his opponent. “You have fought well,” carried the Auror’s voice over the numbed crowd. “There’s no shame in forfeiting.”

This, it seemed, was the wrong thing to say because even after covering his leg wound with conjured bandages Walden Macniar was as eager to duel as ever. Wasting no words, the former Death Eater and current executioner brandished his wand with a flourished and, with a sharp jab, it shot forward with the timed call of, “ _Reducto!_ ” Jumping out of the way of the famous (infamous?) Reductor Curse, Dawlish narrowly avoided the blast that showed no signs of stopping as it made its way for the crowded stands. Safe from where he was sitting, Harry Potter watched with the sort of detached wonder common in eleven year olds when witnessing something amazing yet dangerous that was not directly happening to them. As the panicking witches and wizards strewn about the stands began to realize the danger they were now in, a Ministry Auror set on guard duty in that area was quick to put up a Shield Charm that served only to weaken the destructive spell that, even after shattering the shield, still reduced a couple rows of seat to nothing. Thankfully, however, no one was harmed.

Heedless of that happenings in the stands, the two duelists in the arena seemed to have moved well past the taunting and testing stage of their match. No longer did Walden Macnair bother with first year spells to mock his enemy and no longer did John Dawlish repeatedly use the same spell, and neither called their attacks. In only a few minutes, a mesmerized Harry saw flashes of nearly every color imaginable and witnessed spell affects he had never even heard of. James and Sirius, as well as every other onlooker, was too caught up the vicious duel between this two men to even speak; as such, when Macnair silently cast a spell the color of green that burned away his opponent’s brown overcoat with acid or when Dawlish formed red flaming circles in mid-air that shot out fireballs like cannons, Harry did not even bother to ask what spell they had used.

In total, after nearly twenty minutes of none stop casting, the dueling arena looked more like a barren wasteland; the ground was either scorched, charred, or had been torn apart by spells much stronger than a simple Gouging Charm. The duelists themselves seemed to reflect the land. John Dawlish, devoid of his coat, sagged in clear exhaustion in torn and tattered robes with his right arm hanging limply at his side and a deep gash across his opposite leg. Walden Macnair also looked exhausted, but was keeping off his wounded leg and favoring his other side; his hair was burnt and his formerly flowing black robes now hung lamely due to the numerous gaping holes allowing air to pass through effortlessly. In short, both men had fought well but even they seemed to have reached their limit.

Harry watched in interest and fascination when Macnair raised his wand and instead of casting a spell as the young Ravenclaw had expected instead lifted his wand in a solemn salute. Dawlish across from him smiled weakly and returned the gesture with just as much reverence. Young Harry, who had watched these two inflict such pain on the other, was momentarily lost as to why they would repeat the opening dueling etiquette this late into the match. It was only when he noticed the seemingly fond smiles the two were sharing that he realized: this time they actually meant it. Where before the movements only spoke of rigid formality, here their bodies hung weakly and with respect. Where before they saw only another who called themselves an opponent, here they see a foe worthy of their time. In essence, were before they saluted only out of obligation, now they saluted out of genuine respect. The respect of a battle well fought with an enemy worth fighting. Harry, for reasons he did not understand, found himself envying their battered bodies that could still smile so happily.

Their salutes seemed to convey more than respect, however. Both duelists at once stood and raised their wands at the other. Sharing a short yet respectful bow, the two met their opponent’s eyes evenly and, smiling, chanted, “ _Stupyfy!_ ”

Harry had, of course, heard of the Stunning Spell before; most magical raised had – a spell that renders the target unconscious. Considered ideal for dueling, it was more often than not used as a finishing move; the last spell cast to put the perfect exclamation point on a successful match. The spell’s one hit affect makes it essentially the nonlethal equivalent of the dreaded Killing Curse, but were as that spell is known for its power, the Stunning Spell was known for its ease of use. While most wizards would not even be able to cast the Killing Curse – its illegality not withstanding – nearly every magical could cast its counterpart and it was this fact that made it the perfect end: it was something of an insult to be taken out by such a simple and easy spell. However, it was the Stunning Spell’s lesser known secondary use that made it so interesting: it could stop objects and even other spells. The spell’s singular focus to render all it connects with unconscious seems to repel objects from it and even stop a spell for varying lengths of time. The length of time, naturally, depended on the strength and skill of the wizard to maintain it.

So for Walden Macnair and John Dawlish to meet one another with the same spell, at the same time, they did so not to mock, but to show their respect.

With equally blinding flashes of red light, the two respective beams of the arena duelist’s wands met in the center. The roaring jets of crimson colored light crackled like Muggle electricity as they fought for dominance over the other. On their respective ends of the veritable tug of war match, Macnair and Dawlish strained themselves to put as much power as possible into their spell, but despite the tense moment and no doubt straining effort of the task, they were both smiling. They did not smile out of a sense of superiority or out of confidence in their victory; they smiled for the sheer pleasure of the duel. Both men leveled their all against the other and only here, in a finally standoff worthy of any tale, could the two put their skills to the test against a worthy opponent.

The fluctuating beam of red light sawed back and forth, ebbing and flowing like the tide on an ocean shore. When the beam nearly reached Dawlish, another burst of power sent it back. When Macnair dropped to a knee in order to keep it up, it was sent back with another snap of his arm. The shifting of the beam was matched by the “ohhs” and “ahhs” of the crowd as Dawlish’s supporter’s – James Potter among – cheered when the Auror gained on his opponent and the growing number of Macnair supporters that caught their breathe when the beam found itself only inches away from the executioner’s face. Harry, for some reason unknown to him, found himself among this latter group as he watched the beam slowly, but steadily gaining on the kneeling man, and the young Potter found himself hoping for another flare to send the beam back. However, Harry’s hopes degraded, Walden Macnair had lost the strength to hold it back and with a smile greeted his long awaited rest as the beam struck him squarely in the chest.

While the stands exploded into cheers and celebration at the favored Auror’s victory, said man did not bask in their applause and instead rushed over to his downed opponent. Macnair lay smiling and with a smile of his own, John Dawlish cast a quick Reviving Spell – _Rennervate!_ – and greeted his now reawakened opponent with a smile and an offered hand, which Macnair accepted. When they were both on their feet – or foot since Macnair was still limping – the two shared the sort of handshake one would give a long lost friend or colleague turned rival that you had sorely missed.

As he watched the two from the stands, his own cheers melting into the background with everyone else’s, Harry Potter found himself mentally remarking on the oddity that a Ministry Auror and former Death Eater could look so happy together – that they looked to be old friends as they waved to the cheering crowds around them. More so, however, he found himself thinking back to the amazing duel he had just seen and the respect the two showed one another and realizing that even a Death Eater was only a man and all men have something to teach. The only thing that worried the young boy, though, was why this made him think of Augustus Rookwood and his little black book.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a beast of thing to write. More than a few times, I considered breaking it up into multiple parts, but I like leaving the whole break in a single chapter. Hope you like it -- this is probably my favorite chapter in the story.


	11. Open Book

Hogwarts school's winter break came to its official end the first week of January. As a result, Harry James Potter found himself back on the Hogwarts Express the day before classes were to begin. Sadly, for the first year Ravenclaw, he was not the only one; as always, the train's hall-way was crowded with the over-excited cheers of returning young witches and wizards. 

Harry briefly considered trying to find Anthony Goldstein, or even Terry Boot, in the ensuing chaos, but after nearly being knocked over by a burly sixth year thought better of it. Instead, the emerald eyed Potter decided to merely find a quiet compartment to read; fortunately for Harry, he managed to find one such empty space near the back of the train. 

Taking his preferred seat by the window, Harry was quick to open up a bluish-gray covered book - _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling - before quickly skipping ahead to where he had left off. With the only sounds around him being the quiet rumble of the train and muffled sounds outside his compartment, Harry found himself solely focusing on his book in silence. A silence that was, unfortunately, interrupted by the slamming of his compartment's door. Expecting to see the Hogwarts Express’ trolley woman, Harry instead found himself meeting the brown eyes of Hermione Granger. 

The bushy haired Gryffindor surveyed the compartment in a glance. Harry hoped she would move on, but the muggle-born girl actually smiled before closing the sliding door behind her and taking a seat on the bench opposite of her Ravenclaw year mate. Considering the last time - indeed, every time - they had spoken it ended in a fight, Harry thought it best to simply ignore the Gryffindor. 

Granger, it seemed, disagreed, when she asked, "How was your Christmas?" When she received no response, the eleven year old girl pressed on: "Exams will be starting soon, right? Are you studying for those?" She gestured towards the book Harry had effectively buried himself in. "That's Waffling's book, right? I finished it ages ago. Have you gotten to the part about his theories on wand movements yet?" 

"That's in the first chapter," pointed out the Ravenclaw student. Did she think he had not even read the book before? 

"Is it?" she asked. 

"Why are you here, Granger?" asked Harry, ignoring her question. "Shouldn't you be with your friends or something?" 

Granger actually blushed; her eyes downcast as she wiggled her fingers nervously. After what felt like nearly an hour of awkward staring - but was really no more than a few seconds - she began hesitantly, "I... I wanted to... I wanted to apologize." 

Harry blinked. What? 

"For what I said before," she explained. "About the troll; right after Hallowe'en." 

The emerald eyed boy could only stare. 

"I was..." She actually seemed to flinch before, through clenched teeth, saying, "Wrong. When I said what I... said." 

Hemione Granger was apologizing to him? Harry could actually feel his head starting hurt from the sheer ridiculousness of it all. More than that, though, he could feel his face heating up in embarrassment, but there was one thing... "Why are you bringing this up now?" he asked suspiciously. "That was months ago." 

The young girl sent another look at her feet before replying, "I've been thinking about it since then. I was jealous because it seemed like Professor Flitwick was playing favorites and you are in his house, so..." 

Harry was so surprised by the muggle-born's words he actually found himself closing his book and fixing the girl with his undivided attention. "I-- I don't know what to say," he admitted, at a loss for words. 

"You don't have to say anything," she was quick to reassure him, her voice coming out as a screech. "I've been feeling guilty ever since I heard about what happened to you because of the Weasley twins. What they did to you was wrong!" 

Far from the light hearted shock he felt before, Harry could feel a cold shame coming over him. He tried to push it down, but... "Ron - Ron Weasley, their younger brother - was making jokes just before break. There were others, too. Saying awful things about it; about how you were as bad as the Slytherins. How you were a bad wizard! But I scolded them! Told them they were being mean, that you---" She stopped herself. 

A steady dark cloud had been formed over the Potter boy's head and it seemed even the notoriously short-sighted Hermione Granger had noticed. Harry, for his part, felt only shame. She pitied him? Granger? Pitied him! This buck-toothed muggle-born pitied him! For some reason the thought alone made him angry. 

"I don't need you to defend me!" snapped Harry. 

The muggle-born Granger seemed momentarily surprised by the sudden tension in the room. "I was only trying to help," she defended. 

"Not everyone needs - or wants - your help!" Ignoring the girl's shocked look, he continued, "Why would I care what a bunch of stupid Gryffindors think about me, anyway!? And that includes you! I don't need you defending me!" 

"I--I--" For the first time since he had ever met Granger, she actually seemed to be at a loss for words. Harry thought it was a refreshing change. Sadly it did not last. "You don't have to be so rude about it," she finally said. Her face was red again; this time with anger. "That'll be the last time I try to help you, cruel boy!" With that said, the muggle-born Gryffindor was quick to gather up her things before storming out of the compartment, slamming the sliding door even harder than she did when she arrived. Harry Potter watched her leave with a satisfied glare. 

"Good riddance," he said happily to himself before pulling open his copy of Waffling's _Magical Theory_ once more. The young Ravenclaw was more then happy with the quiet compartment for the rest of the trip.

* * *

The Great Hall seemed even more massive than it had before break; possibly because Harry found himself comparing it to the small Potter homestead in Godric's Hollow. Whatever the reason, the young Ravenclaw caught himself smiling the moment he took his first step inside. 

An assorted array of foods had already appeared along each of the house tables. As he made his way towards the Ravenclaw table, Harry could make out the snippets of conversations from his house-mates discussing their respective breaks. 

"My dad got me a new broom," gushed Terry Boot. "It's no Nimbus, mind you, but I think I've got a shot at being Seeker next year!" 

"Maybe if you were in Gryffindor," laughed Michael Corner, sending a look towards the Gryffindor table; their team's Seeker, Cormac McLaggen, had failed to catch a single Golden Snitch all year. Currently he was stabbing a bit of eggs rather violently. 

"Good to see you, Harry," greeted Anthony Goldstein as the other Ravenclaw took his customary seat next to him. 

"Same," responded Harry. "How was your break?" 

"Nothing special," the blonde replied. "It was nice being back home, though. Yours?" 

"Great!" replied a grinning Harry. "I've learned lots. Wait 'till I tell you about the duel I saw!" 

For the remainder of the "welcome back" feast, Harry wasted no time in enacting the Macnair-Dawlish duel he had seen to a growing audience. Boot and Corner had stopped talking about the upcoming Ravenclaw-Slytherin Quidditch game and were listening in now while Lisa Turpin, who was seated a little ways down from them, tried to pretend she was not. Even some of the senior years looked interested; Robert Hilliard tried to look bored, but was clearly grinning, and Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe were glancing his way. 

By the time Harry had begun telling Anthony (and Boot _and_ Turpin _and_ Hilliard) about Macnair’s use of the "Ventus" spell as a whip, the feast was already coming to an end. Since classes would not be starting until the following day, and at Boot's insistence, Harry found himself finishing his story to a crowd of Ravenclaw first years later that night in the house of the witty's common room. 

Using Terry Boot as a prop to represent the Auror John Dawlish, Harry and the other boy were engaged in a dramatic - and imaginary - game of tug of war to represent Dawlish and Walden Macnair’s final stand-off. The assembled group of first years gave a roaring laugh when Harry toppled over in "defeat." 

"I am the greatest duelist in the world!" proclaimed the "victorious" Boot. 

Smothering a laugh as she approached the group of first years, Ravenclaw Prefect Penelope Clearwater smiled. "You certainly are, Terry," she said kindly; Boot blushed brightly under her praise. "And you, Harry," she added to the downed boy. "You should consider enrolling in the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts after you graduate." 

Sitting up from his spot on the floor, Harry actually cringed. "I don't think my dad would like that very much," he admitted. "Neither would I, now that I think about it." 

"Well, it would be a shame to waste such talent," she laughed. Turning her attention to the rest of the assembled first years, she added, "Alright, everyone, it's almost lights out! Off to bed, first years." 

Amidst the groans of every first year in the common room, a still blushing Boot extended a hand to the downed Potter. Taking the hand with a smile of his own, Terry Boot helped his fellow Ravenclaw to his feet. Quickly promising to meet-up with Anthony Goldstein the following morning, Harry and Terry followed Stephen Cornfoot back to their shared dormitory room. 

Even with Cornfoot’s sulking posture, no doubt still angry with him over their fight earlier in the school year, Harry could not keep himself from smiling. It was good to be back at Hogwarts! 

* * *

"I hope you all enjoyed your winter break," squeaked Ravenclaw's head of house, Filius Flitwick, from the pile of books the diminutive Charms professor used to oversee his class. 

As was usual, Ravenclaw house arrived to their morning Charms class before the Gryffindors they shared the period with. Because of this, Harry was already seated between Anthony Goldstein and, for some reason, Lisa Turpin, when the students from the house of the "brave" came in; led by the Boy-Who-Lived, Neville Longbottom, and their resident muggle-born know-it-all, Hermione Granger. 

From his seat, Harry met the disapproving glare Granger shot him with stoic indifference. Goldstein, seeing the exchange of looks, sighed deeply at his friends, but Turpin was too busy glaring right along with him to notice. 

"She looks angrier than usual," commented Anthony Goldstein as he watched the muggle-born Granger take a seat next to Longbottom and fellow Gryffindor girl, Fay Dunbar. "Did you two fight again?" 

"She found me on the train coming back to Hogwarts," answered Harry. "Came to have a laugh about her Gryffindor buddies mocking me because of the Weasley prank." Not strictly true, Harry knew, but the muggle-born girl did not seem to have any trouble talking down to him the whole time. She probably laughed when she first heard about the prank, too, and was just trying to make herself feel less guilty. Harry nodded; satisfied with his reasoning and even half convinced it was actually right. 

Goldstein, however, did not even look half convinced as he stared a Harry incredulously. Harry was saved from his fellow Ravenclaw further inquiry when Flitwick started class. Instead of going over review material, like Harry expected him to, the short Charms professor began instructing the class on the nature of counter-spells; the type of spells that removed the effects of other spell. 

"You've no doubt had experience with these in your other classes," squeaked Professor Flitwick as he lit his wand before casting a spell Professor Quirrell had taught them before break: the Wand-Extinguishing Charm, "Nox!" As the light faded from his wand, the Ravenclaw head of house continued, "Thankfully counter-spells are normally much easier to learn then the spell they are countering. Observe."

With a wave of the professor's wand and a squeaky, "Avis!" a small bird appeared on the Charms teacher's podium. "Today we will be learning the counter-spell to the Leg-Locker Curse. If your time at Hogwarts is anything like mine, you will be on the receiving end of this spell at least once so make sure you pay attention." 

Everyone that had been expecting a boring review class listened to the professor's lecture intently; Harry, Anthony Goldstein, and Turpin included. Harry's hopes of learning a new dueling spell, however, were destroyed when the former Ravenclaw-turned-teacher said, "The Leg-Locker Curse is beyond the skills of most first years," Groans were heard around the room; particularly from Gryffindor. "But the counter-spell is much easier." 

Silently casting, Professor Flitwick cased the Leg-Locker Curse on his conjured bird before demonstrating to the class the proper wand movements for the counter-spell. By the time Flitwick bird was flapping about the class, free from all bindings, Harry was convinced he could cast the spell. His demonstration complete, Filius Flitwick urged his class to practice. 

Harry wasted no time in summoning a bird of his own. "Avis!" he said rather loudly, getting the attention most of the class. 

"That’s not going to do you much good," remarked a dead-pan Lisa Turpin from his side. "If you can't cast the curse." 

Sending her a knowing look, Harry was quick to raise his hand. "Professor Flitwick," he called out, getting his head of house's attention. "Could you cast the spell on my bird, sir? I think I'm ready." 

There was a brief moment of doubt in his eyes, but the short professor eventually settled on a smile. "An eager one, aren't you, Mister Potter?" he asked rhetorically before nodding his head. With a short flick of the Charms master's wand, Harry's bird found its' legs stuck together. 

"Thank you, sir," said Harry Potter before focusing on his bird, a bead of sweet rolling down the back of his neck. His request had gotten the attention of everyone in the class; Goldstein and Turpin, like the rest of Ravenclaw house, were watching him with curious expressions on their faces, but the young Potter child could hear the dismissive laughs from the Gryffindor side. More than anything, though, Harry could feel the doubting eyes from the muggle-born Hermione Granger. 

Remembering everything Professor Quirinus Quirrell had told him earlier that same school year about intent and visualization, Harry's emerald eyes narrowed on the small and helpless bird before him. ' _l can free you, little bird,_ ' thought Harry confidently. Outwardly, the young Ravenclaw could only be heard faintly muttering the counter-spell. 

Aiming his Blackthorn and Ash wand at the small bird's feet, Harry cast the spell. In a flash of red light the enveloped the conjured creature, the emerald eyed first year and many others waited to various degrees of interest. Before the light could even fade, however, a melodies series of tweeting sounds could be heard as Harry's bird lifted up from his desk. He found himself smiling as he saw the little creature's legs moving freely beneath it. 

Professor Flitwick watched as his and Harry's birds flew around one another, singing happily. Smiling proudly towards his first year Ravenclaw, Flitwick rewarded, "Ten points to Ravenclaw; for a well-casted spell and for confidence in yourself." 

Harry Potter may have spent the rest of the class helping his fellow Ravenclaws with the spell, smiling from his head of house’s praise, but the eleven-year-old could not stop the self-satisfied smirk on his lips when Gryffindor boy, Seamus Finnigan, managed to burn off his eyebrows after misusing the spell. Neither could he stop the haughty look he sent Hermione Granger when she, too, cast the spell, but was rewarded no points. 

The scandalized glare she sent him in return made it all the better.

* * *

Harry's good mood and cheer lasted just as long as it took Draco Malfoy, a first year Slytherin, to put Ron Weasley of Gryffindor in the infirmary; apparently the loser in a duel between the two. Nothing could be proven, of course, because no one actually caught the two, but the robust nature of Hogwarts’ gossip allowed the news to spread. 

Championed by the likes of Gryffindor girl Lavender Brown, gossip claims Malfoy and Weasley met up to duel; the Slytherin won and the Gryffindor found himself under Madam Pomfrey’s care the next day, suffering from the effects of numerous jinxes and hexes. Normally, the Ravenclaw Potter would not have concerned himself with the news since he lacked any real connection to either participating parties; Malfoy he knew only for his name (James Potter having mentioned the first year Slytherin's father a time-or-dozen); the same with Weasley, Harry only knew him by reputation. What made the emerald eyed Potter interested was... 

"They say Weasley was hopping the whole way when he was taken to the infirmary," said Padma Patil, explaining what her twin sister, Pavarti of Gryffindor, had told her. 

"Hopping?" asked a clueless Mandy Brocklehurst. "Were his legs hurt?" 

"No," gushed the Ravenclaw's only first year muggle-born, Kevin Entwhistle. "I heard it was a curse." 

"The Leg-Locker Curse, specifically," added Stephen Cornfoot. "Apparently that's how Malfoy won." 

"But I thought Professor Flitwick said first years couldn't learn that spell?" questioned Brocklehurst. 

"He did," agreed Cornfoot. "I even tried it for myself and couldn't do it." Entwhistle, Brocklehurst, and Patil all nodded, confirming they had failed to learn the spell, too. Emboldened by support, Cornfoot said, "I wager it's 'cause of his dad. He's a big shot at the Ministry; probably payed loads for tutors to teach his son." 

From his seat further down the Ravenclaw table, Harry Potter rolled his eyes. Resisting the urge to ask if, maybe, Cornfoot had considered if Malfoy might just be a better wizards than him, instead, Harry turned to the fellow first year next to him: Anthony Goldstein. "Anthony," began the Potter boy. "How are you doing with your class work?" 

Seeing a mischievous glint in the other boy's emerald eyes, Goldstein answered cautiously, "Fine, you know that. Why?" 

Smiling a little, Harry said, "I'm just thinking it seems sort-of wrong for the supposed house of the intelligent to be up-staged by a Slytherin. We Ravenclaws have a reputation to up-hold, after all." 

"You want to learn the Leg-Locker Curse," guessed Goldstein correctly. "Is this another thing you're trying to do to beat Granger?" The taller boy was, of course, mainly referring to Harry's display in Charms class with the conjured bird a few days prior; since that day, Harry had tried to out-answer the Gryffindor muggle-born girl at any opportunity. 

"Not everything has to be about _her_ ," he sighed, sending a mild glare towards the Gryffindor table. "This is about our pride as Ravenclaws." 

"You just want somebody to practice duel when you learn the spell," deduced Anthony Goldstein. 

"That, too," answered Harry unashamedly. Ever since the Macnair-Dawlish duel, he had developed an avid interest in dueling and was anxious to actually try it for himself. "So, interested?" 

"We do not have much time before exams begin," thought Anthony aloud. "But knowing a second year spell has got to get us some extra credit for Defense; maybe even Charms." 

Knowing that was a yes, Harry grinned at his victory. "Defense is our last class for the day. I have to talk to Professor Quirrell about something," said Harry, his thoughts drifting to a particular black covered book. "But we can meet up after." 

Arrangements made, Harry and Anthony were among the first Ravenclaws to arrive for their Defense Against the Dark Arts class. With Professor Quirrell no-where in sight and everyone already quietly talking amongst themselves, the two Ravenclaws decided to start studying early. 

Anthony Goldstein's purple colored copy of Quentin Trimble's book, _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ , was opened up on the table in front of them. "I knew it was a long shot," Goldstein was saying. "That a second year spell would be in here, but this Professor Trimble fellow used to be Headmaster. You'd think he'd at least mention other spells." 

"We can always check the Hogwarts Library later," offered Harry. "And that's only if it's not already in the Ravenclaw common room." 

Terry Boot, who arrived only a few minutes before class was about to start, took one look at the two before releasing a deep sigh. "Do you two ever stop reading?" he asked. "Really, it's not good for you." 

"Keep that up," laughed Michael Corner from the row of desks behind them. "And Potter's not going to share any more of his notes." 

"You're right, I'm not!" snapped Harry indignantly, sending the other three boys in fits of laughter. Many of their fellow Ravenclaws and the Slytherins on the other side of the room sent them strange looks. 

The light mood of the room was destroyed, however, when one minute before class the double doors burst open. At once, the entire class of students turned to greet the latest arrival. Knowing that Professor Quirrell was the only one still absent, Harry, too, turned away from mock-glaring at Boot. When he did, his bright emerald eyes widened. 

Professor Quirinus Quirrell had always been a thin man, even when Harry first saw him at Gringotts before school began. Now, however, the Defense teacher seemed like little more than bone; his skin stretched over his face so tightly, Harry thought he could trace each bone in his head by eye alone. The pallor on his pale face showed the young professor was very ill. 

Regardless of his health, Professor Quirrell rushed into the room, closing and locking the double-doors behind him. The man sent a few nervous glances around the room before taking a deep breath and walking timidly towards the front of the class. 

"G-g-good day, c-cl-class!" said the teacher in his usual stutter. "We w-will be studying we-wer-werewolf b-bites." His body quickly broke out in a full-body shudder so violent at the thought of the moon-lit beasts many in class thought he might faint; Harry included. 

Putting his teacher's many fears out of his mind, Harry quickly pulled out his own copy of Trimble's _Guide to Self-Protection_ , finding the page on werewolf bites after a short search. Goldstein beside him found his after only flipping a couple pages. 

Quirrell seemed to have collected himself because he took a deep breathe before saying, "The b-bite from a wer-werewolf contains a d-deadly p-poison. If the w-wound is not im-imed-imedi-- If the w-wound is not tr-treated, the v-victim could b-become a w-werewolf themselves." 

"Professor," asked Slytherin girl, Tracey Davis, raising her hand. "Have you ever encountered a werewolf before?" 

From his seat across the aisle from the Slytherin girl, Harry rolled his eyes, predicting the defense teacher's reaction. As expected, Professor Quirrell seemed to pale even further - that was a surprise, at least - before quickly rushing over to the nearby board. 

"Y-your class as-assignment," said a frantic Quirrell, pointedly ignoring everybody. 

"Don't know why you bothered to ask," Harry heard Daphne Greengrass mutter to her fellow Slytherin. "He never says anything." Davis shrugged in reply. 

Ravenclaw and Slytherin students alike spent the remainder of the class period skimming through their books to find different ways of treating werewolf bites before copying them down into their notes, as instructed. Quirinus Quirrell busied himself by laying his fore-head against his desk, seemingly asleep. 

"Is it just me," whispered Terry Boot from Harry's side. "Or is Quirrell getting to be an even worse teacher?" 

"He wasn't that bad before," defended the Potter child, before offering, "Maybe he's ill?" 

By the end of class, even Harry, who could stay awake through a class of History of Magic with Professor Binns, was tired of reading about werewolves and their bites. There really was not much a wizard could do if they were bitten by one of the mindless monsters, anyway. So it was that he felt a smile come to his face when class time finally expired. Slytherin house wasted no time in filing out of the room in an orderly line and most Ravenclaws were not far behind. 

"Glad that's finally over with," sighed Boot happily. "You two ready to head back to the common room?" 

Packing away his school books back into his bag, Harry shook his head, saying, "No, sorry. I have to ask Professor Quirrell something about a book." Everyone missed it, but the emerald eyed boy sent a strange look towards black book in his bag. 

"We were going to meet up to practice a spell," Anthony Goldstein was saying, referring to their plan regarding the Leg-Locker Curse. "So I was going to wait for him. You should go ahead." 

"Are you sure, Anthony?" asked a nervous Boot, sending a strange look towards the door. 

"Yes. Why? What's wrong?" 

Laughing, Harry explained, "Terry's afraid he'll get locked out of the common room again because he can't answer the door knocker's riddle." He was referring to their first night back when Terry had been unable to answer the Ravenclaw Tower's riddle. If one of the fifth years had not come by the boy would have been out during curfew. 

Boot was quick to send his fellow Ravenclaw a glare for the reminder, but did not bother to deny it; no doubt remembering a couple of the other times he had been locked out of the Ravenclaw common room. Seeing his friend's state, Anthony Goldstein smiled. "Come on, Terry," the blonde laughed. "I'll save you from the big, bad riddles--" 

"I can answer a stupid riddle!" 

Ignoring the irate Boot, who he proceeded to push out of the room, Anthony called back over his shoulder as the two walked out the door, "See you later, Harry!" 

Watching his fellow Ravenclaw leave with a shake of his head for a moment, the only Potter child braced himself. Taking a quick look around the room, Harry made sure he was finally alone - the still "sleeping" defense teacher no included - before reaching into his bag and pulling out Augustus Rookwood's black book. Sparing the book a pensive look for a moment, the first year student nodded his head before taking hold of the book. 

Professor Quirrell, much as he had during class, still had his head laid out over his desk, face down. Even as Harry approached, the older man made no move to rise. "Professor," he called out, yet received no answer. "Professor Quirrell, sir?" 

The turban wearing man remained still. Fixing his square-framed glasses with one hand, Rookwood's book in the other, Harry considered calling for Madam Pomfrey, the school's healer, but he stopped when he recalled a similar incident earlier in the school year. That in mind, the young Ravenclaw reached out a hesitant hand towards the teacher. "Sir, are you feeling--" 

Without warning, Quirinus Quirrell shot up in his seat with a strangled cry for help dead on his lips. Harry, so startled by the sudden movement, took a cautious step backwards as he watched the nervous defense professor survey his surroundings, searching for threats; what startled the only Potter child, however, was the narrowed eyes that did so. After a few moments of frantic searching, Quirrell seemed to remember where he was when his pale blue eyes settled on Harry's emerald ones. 

"M-mister Potter," he began, running his tongue over his clearly dry lips. "Shouldn't you be working?" 

"Class is over, sir," reminded Harry confusedly, his free hand motioning around the empty classroom. 

"S-so it is..." Quirrell's voice sounded tired and there was a slight tremor that shook his left hand. Even when the professor meet his student's eyes in question, he seemed distracted. "Wh-what seems to be the p-problem, M-mister P-Potter?" 

Harry paused. He had been trying to get a hold of Quirrell for days before winter break, to give him back Rookwood's evil book, but now... "I still have your book, professor," Harry decided upon, lifting the book up for the older man to see. 

"Augustus R-rookwood," Quirrell's voice sounded reminiscent, like he was remembering their previous conversation only then after having forgotten it for so long. "I see you weren't comfortable with it, after all." The man reached out a shaky hand, grasping for the black book. "Let me just take that and--" He got no further. 

With a sudden and defensive yank of his hands, Quirrell's fingers were knocked away as Harry pulled the book out of the defense professor's reach. "No!" the raven haired Potter said. "I-- I..." His eyes were wide and his stance uncertain; the young boy seemed to be struggling with something. 

Quirrell seemed surprised by the young boy's reaction as he pulled his hand back slowly. "Harry," he spoke softly, as to a wounded and frightened animal. "Tell me what's wrong." 

"I..." Harry gasped for breathe, trying to find the words. "I read the book, sir. Part of it, anyway." 

Understanding seemed to dawn on the older man; he nodded his head slowly, but there was light of something behind his pale colored eyes. "Which part?" he asked. 

"The first part," spoke the younger Ravenclaw. "The introduction." The boy took a deep breathe before continuing, but his words were hesitant. "It was right after I got back from the dueling competition. I was so excited and--" He seemed to stumble on something. "And Macnair didn't seem so bad, and Bagman was _his_ friend so I thought--" 

"Slow down, Harry," urged Quirrell. "Slow down. Take your time and explain." 

And so Harry did... 

* * *

_The Walden Macnair and John Dawlish duel still in his mind, the young Harry James Potter could not keep his mind from racing as his studious Ravenclaw sorted mind tried to analyze everything about the match within the confines of his own head._

_Harry, his father, James, and Sirius Black had returned hours ago, but the late hour sent them all to bed - or home, in the latter's case - but Harry simply could not sleep. Harry was thankful for his Uncle Remus' information about under-aged magic laws as he sat in bed with his head buried under the blanket._

_"Lumos!" he chanted quietly as his Blackthorn and Ash wand's crooked tip lit up, showering the book beneath him with its light. The book was an advanced text on dueling spells, the same he had been reading in the days leading up to the tournament to identify spells. The first year may not have understood most of the more complicated bits of information, but he could still read the effects and, in his phantasies, cast them the same way Macnair and Dawlish had before a cheering crowd._

_Harry had heard stories about dueling, about the skill required for it, and the knowledge necessary to win. It those stories, he had always pictured Aurors like his father fighting against black cloaked and nameless Death Eaters; the two trading spells in a violent and ferocious display that ended with a defeated Death Eater. No fondness between them, no friendship; merely two enemies dueling until the "bad guy" lost._

_What he had seen in that arena, however... John Dawlish, an Auror, had dueled the Death Eater Walden Macnair, former or not, and yet by the end they looked to be dueling more as friend than foe. The respect they showed each either mirrored in the mutual decision to use the Stunning Spell. The level of respect they showed each other did not mix well with the image of the horrific wizarding war Harry had grown up hearing about. The followers of You-Know-Who were evil and the Aurors were there to beat the bad guys._

_But, still..._

_Releasing a sigh, Harry tossed the advanced spell book onto a nearby table before he began digging his hand around in-between his mattress and the box of his bed. When he felt his fingers glide over something, he knew he had found what he intended. Quickly pulling it out, Harry was met with the sight of Augustus Rookwood's book. The blank surface of the book made it seem innocent, but, even without any writings, Harry knew what this book was._

_'_ Rookwood-- a Death Eater wrote this, _' thought Harry, tracing the book's pages with his fingers. Harry had always been taught that anything related to Death Eaters was bad, but Dawlish had... Dawlish had helped Macnair up even after winning; even knowing what the man was. Ludo Bagman, a cheerful and happy looking man, had even been friends with Rookwood, once-upon-a-time._

_With a cautious hand, Harry Potter opened the book and was only mildly surprised when nothing happened. No hidden Death Eater curse, no Auror coming to arrest him, no Professor Quirrell popping out of his closet to tell him it was all a test, and, worst of all, his parents were not there to say no. The pages were a pale white, like a new muggle book instead of worn-out parchment, and the neat black letters seemed very bright in contrast._

"If you are reading this," _the first line said_ , "Then stop. Close this book, toss it away, hide it, burn it. Do whatever you must to be rid of it. Why? Because this is an evil tome, filled with magic most foul, written by a marked servant of the most vile Dark Lord in history." 

_Harry could only blink in confusion at the book's strange beginning. Did he not want anyone to read this? Confused, but supported by his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's words, he read more:_

"You've heard the stories of murder and pillage, of death and destruction. So why read a book written by a Death Eater? By Augustus Rookwood, the traitor? The answer is simple: you shouldn't. After all, not only am I evil, I'm also mad. Here in my cell, awaiting my mock trial before Bartemius Crouch and his farce of a tribunal, I can only speculate on what stories you were told about the rise of the Dark Lord and his faithful Death Eaters. 

"In your mind what is a Death Eater? Are we stories meant to frighten children to bed? Monsters with no conscious? Madmen seeking to sate our lust for violence, motivated by our desire to consume death? When you picture the face of a Death Eater, what comes to mind? Our dark masks? Our cloaked yet faceless hoods, devoid of life? 

"What of our character? Do you think us sliver tongued serpents, like a particular 'Imperiused' blonde of bad faith? Are we rabid hounds, meant to be put down, like that lunatic Lestrange? What about our motives, why we fought? Was it for that purity of wizarding blood? To protect the wizarding world from the muggle threat? To gain power? 

"The truth is that everyone one of those is right. And at the same time none of them. We chasers of death came from all sorts. Some were mad while others were brilliant. Some were evil while others were idealists. Some were cruel while others were soft. We all came for different reasons, but we stayed for the same reason: the Dark Lord. Whatever stories you've heard, whatever tales of murder and death you've been told and whatever nightmares you may have had: every one of them is true. 

"Never has there been a man more evil than He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Named. Not Lady Morgana, not Herpo the Foul, not even that loon Ekrizdis and most assuredly not Gellert Grindelwald. The Dark Lord is without question the worst sort of person you could ever meet. Do not question this. But he is also the most powerful sorcerer who has ever lived and may yet live. 

"I have been a student of magic for as long I could form the words on my breathe. I have seen Albus Dumbledore weave wonders with but the flick of a wand and I have delved into the biggest secrets of the Department of Mysterious, but both are mere shades compared to Him. My words should not be mistaken for blind worship and my words should not be ignored. The Dark Lord is the greatest wizard who has ever lived but he is also the most horrible man to have ever been born. 

"I have never fit what most consider the normal Death Eater recruit. I may be pureblood, but my family name has no great history of service to the dark. My grandparents having fought against Grindelwald's rise only a generation before my own. I unknowingly disproved that not all Death Eaters came from Slytherin house when I was made a Ravenclaw at age eleven and I have never been a pureblood supremacist.

"What I am however, I admit proudly: I am a dark wizard."

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And we have reached an important mile-stone: as of this chapter, this fan-work if officially longer than the book on which it was based. Yay for me, I guess. Anyway, hope you liked this chapter; I am actually very fond of Rookwood's little speech. Let me know if you liked it, too, or what has been your favorite part so far. Or tell me what you did not like.


	12. Accusation

_"What I am however, I admit proudly: I am a dark wizard."_

Harry Potter’s breathe came in short bursts as he related his memory and his fingers only held onto the black book of Augustus Rookwood all the tighter. He could not raise his emerald colored eyes from the floor, too afraid to meet what he knew would be the judging – _condemning_ – eyes of his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. 

Because of this the young Ravenclaw missed the slightly upturned lips of Quirinus Quirrell and how his pale blue eyes seemed to flash a shade of red. At once, though, the half-smile turned kind and the older man spoke in gentle tones. “Relax, Harry,” he said, forcing Harry’s attention. “You’ve done nothing for me to judge you harshly.” 

Slowly Harry’s eyes followed the path up from the floor to meet his professor’s eyes and he reeled at what he saw: understanding. It made him feel even worse. “You don’t get it, sir,” the boy muttered. “I… I’m…” 

When no words seem to come, Quirrell nodded. “I had worried this might happen. You are still young, after all. Not quite ready.” 

“Ready for what!?” Harry found strength in that question; in the feeling that brought it out. Ever the Ravenclaw, seeking answers. “Why do I still want to read this!? Even Rookw--” he paused stumbling over the name. “Even _he_ said it was evil, but I recognized something. Something about what he said made me…” He was at a loss for words. 

Quirrell gave a pitying nod of his head, his turban shifting slightly as he did, before saying, “Rookwood was a brilliant man; well learned and studied. He could puzzle a problem and find an answer; he was fond of word games.” 

“You speak as if you knew him,” sighed Harry, his body feeling drained. 

“I may have never met him,” denied Quirrell. “But I know him in much the way I know Bathilda Bagshot: I read her book. We can speak of facts like the sky is blue, but when we look for deeper meaning…” He paused, searching for something. “There is no such thing as an impartial view, Harry; only perspective. When people write about complex subjects, they are giving their opinion – as biased as it may be.” 

“So Rookwood is lying?” asked Harry, eyes widening. 

“Possibly,” conceded Quirrell. “But about what? Who can say? His book, like any other, is the perspective of one man. Remember what I told you when I gave you that book?” He gestured to the black book still clenched in Harry’s hands. “I think you can be a great wizard, Harry, but first you must realize something.” 

Holding back a slight blush at being called great again, Harry asked nervously, “What, sir?” 

“About that book,” he whispered, his tone distant. “You are not afraid because of how evil it is or what it contains. You do no fear the lessons it has to tell or the magics it can teach. You are not even afraid of Augustus Rookwood.” Quirrell pale blue eyes glinted as they met Harry’s wide emerald ones. “You stand here now, scared and with clenched hands, because you do _not_ feel fear.” 

“I-- But, I…” the first year let the words tumble out, but none were truly spoken. Instead, his brow sweat and his fingers clenched the spine of Rookwood’s book until they turned white and his arms shook from the effort. A building pain in his head began to form as he desperately looked for the words to explain. 

“You do not fear this book, Harry,” said Quirrell gently. “And that is what scares you. When you touch the book and feel no pain, when you read the words and see no lies, and when you hear the message and understand the meaning... This is not a cursed book, Harry. This is a guide to magic, from a perspective you never thought to consider.” 

“Shouldn’t I, though? Be scared of it?” asked Harry. “Because if this makes sense…” 

“What else might?” finished Quirrell for him. “There is no impartial view, Harry. Nobody is always right. Many brilliant witches and wizards have stood on both sides of every conflict, each for their own reason. Some were bad, yes, but all had reasons.” 

“But which ones are right? How can you tell?” 

“That, Harry, is why I think you are ready,” said Quirinus Quirrell. “When I was your age, I assumed what was right. I never considered it for myself. But I think you are different. I think you can discover that answer for yourself and I think that book is the start of it.” 

“This book?” wondered Harry, marveling at how clearer his mind felt and how much lighter the book seemed to be in his hands. “If it’s about perspective… I think Rookwood was wrong, but… I don’t think he was evil.” 

When Harry Potter left Quirrell’s classroom he felt free. Free to choose, free to study, free to learn, and free to explore anything that came to mind. Even as he settled down into his bed in the Ravenclaw dormitory, he felt free. 

* * *

As January turned to February and the cold weather forced all but the most dedicated Quidditch players inside to huddle around the brightest fires, much of Ravenclaw house found itself resting comfortably in their tower. The tower’s many roaring fires and its own collection of books kept nearly everyone content, but… 

“I’m bored,” sounded the exasperated sigh of Terry Boot who was staring blankly out a nearby window in the common room. “There’s nothing to do now.” 

His friend, Michael Corner, was quick to reassure him. “But the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game is this weekend,” he pointed out. “Who do you think is going to win?” 

“Hufflepuff, probably,” answered Boot with a wave of his hand. “But at this point they are just fighting over third place. We already know who’s going to win the cup this year.” 

“Slytherin,” sighed a now melancholic Boot and Corner. The boys were, of course, referring to Ravenclaw house’s narrow loss to the Slytherin team the previous weekend. 

Suddenly Corner seemed to perk up. “But wait! If we do well enough in our last game against Gryffindor, and Slytherin does poorly enough in _their_ game against Hufflepuff, maybe we can still…” 

“Sounds like a lot of ‘ifs’ to me,” dismissed Boot. “I wouldn’t bet on it.” 

“Did somebody say bet?” asked a smiling Eddie Carmichael as he approached the two younger Ravenclaw boys. “Come on, come on! You want to, right?” 

“You’re still doing that?” wondered Corner. 

“Gotta make a living,” said Carmichael glibly. “So what do you two say to a wager on the upcoming game?” 

Before Boot could reply someone else called out: “Ignore him, Terry!” The assembled group of three turned to see a frowning Anthony Goldstein and a smirking Harry Potter. Anthony, still eying Carmichael, continued, “He is just trying to convince people to bet against Slytherin.” 

Michael Corner, smiling, said, “Eddie! What a show of house loyalty!” 

Harry scoffed. “That’s not it,” he said blandly. “It’s just that nobody is stupid enough to bet against the five time winning Quidditch cup champions as this point.” 

“It’s six years!” snapped a now irate Carmichael. “For six years those snakes have beat down any competition. Since I started this betting racket two years ago I haven’t been able to get any good betting odds against Slytherin.” 

“Maybe it’s time you thought of another way to cheat people, then,” remarked Harry. “When are the Gobstone finals, anyway?” The group of first years laughed as Eddie Carmichael just growled in frustration before storming off all the while muttering something about “house-elf racing” or some such. 

“Nice one, Harry,” complimented a grinning Terry Boot. “But that still leaves me with nothing to do.” Pausing for a moment in consideration, he looked to Anthony and Harry before asking, “What do you two do for fun?” 

“What we always do,” said Goldstein. “Wizard’s Chess.” 

“Or practice spells,” added Harry Potter causing Boot to sigh in boredom. 

“Only when you finally give up on trying to beat me at the former.” 

“Oh, sorry? How many practice duels have I won again?” asked the emerald eyed Potter. “Did you say three to your one?” 

Laughing, Anthony shrugged before saying, “Just for that, I think I will be taking your king with a pawn this game.” 

“You’re on!” 

Unfortunately, despite his best efforts to prevent it, thirty minutes later found the only Potter child watching helplessly as his king piece was shattered by the mighty swing of one of Goldstein’s white colored pawns. 

“Check-mate,” said a triumphant Goldstein good-naturally. “Want to go another round?” 

Turning from staring at the offending white piece with all the hate he could muster for a chess piece, Harry Potter released a sigh in defeat. “Set it up!” he waved his hand in defeat. 

“Still can’t beat him, huh?” asked a bland sounding Lisa Turpin suddenly. “Really, Potter, not very lucky are you? Or is it just not very skilled?” She put a finger to her chin and even seemed to be thinking over her own question. 

Choosing to ignore her sudden appearance as he usually did, Harry rolled his eyes as he said, “Let me try being white this time.” 

“Sure,” agreed Goldstein, turning the board around calmly; well use to Harry's odd sort-of friendship with the Turpin girl. 

“Ignoring me, Potter?” asked a faux hurt Turpin. “How sad. I thought we were friends.” 

“No, we’re not,” disagreed Harry. “Now why not go bother the Ravenclaw girls? I heard Padma Patil was getting a group together to go pick flowers or something. Do that.” Looking up from the chess board for the first time, Harry finally turned to glare at the annoying girl before pausing. 

Lisa Turpin’s skin was very pale and her breathe was coming out in a billowy fog. She also had a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a half cape. Catching his up-turned eye-brow, she said simply, “It’s winter.” 

“Of course it is,” nodded Harry. “I was just thinking about how happy you must be that _you_ were _wrong_ ; that you were sorted Ravenclaw. After all, if you are this cold here I cannot imagine how bad it would be in the Slytheirn dungeons under the lake.” 

“Very witty, Potter,” was her immediate reply. “You do your house proud. See if I care to come say hello to my friend again.” Turning on the spot, she walked away calm as can be with her foggy smoke trail flapping in the wind behind her. 

“It’s your house, too!” called Harry to her retreating back. “And we’re not friends!” 

“I don’t understand your relationship with that girl,” said a chuckling Anthony Goldstein. “But I am glad to see you are feeling better.” 

“Feeling better?” asked a confused Harry. He had not gotten sick all year. 

“Yeah,” nodded Anthony. “You seemed distracted ever since we got back from break, but you’re joking around more now. That bit with Carmichael and now Turpin. I don’t know, you just seem more relaxed now. Mind if I ask what changed?” 

Tilting his head to the side, Harry Potter eyed the arranged board of black and white chess pieces thoughtfully. “I guess I am feeling better now,” he said distantly. “I just found a really interesting book. It’s given me a lot to think on, though.” 

“Must be some book,” the other boy said. “Might want to borrow it when you’re done.” 

“Not your kind of read,” the emerald eyed boy was quick to say. “Now come on. I think I can finally beat you this time.” 

In the end, Harry still lost; black or white, it only changed the end of the game by one turn. But as he watched one of Anthony’s rook pieces take out his king, Harry thought of a certain black book.

* * *

Despite Terry Boot’s belief that the upcoming Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game was pointless, the students of Hogwarts descended into their usual state of chaos like always. Even the normally cool headed Anthony Goldstein found himself pulled away by a crowd of excited Quidditch fans the morning of the game while shouting feeble protests. 

Meanwhile Harry, who thought all the games were pointless, had successfully avoided the crowds by finding a secluded path on the castle walls that over-looked the Forbidden Forest below. Harry rather liked the spot for two reasons: one, it faced opposite of the chilly winds and two, it was secluded enough there were few passersby, especially considering the game currently in progress. 

The seclusion was even more important as the young Potter child indulged his most recent obsession: reading Augustus Rookwood's book. Seated on one of Hogwarts castle’s many out-door benches, Harry balanced the black book on his knees as he kept up his Blue-Bell Flames spell for warmth. 

_"Magic, by its very nature, is a volatile force few have ever truly controlled,"_ he read quietly, ignoring the puffs of breathe in the air. _“Many claim to be its master, but they are fools. Led astray by their own egos. But while few have realized it, magic can be brought down to its three core principles: power, intent, and control.”_

Harry smiled as he remembered Professor Quirrell telling him much the same earlier in the year, back when he could not even use a spell as simple as the Severing Charm. Now he knew where the professor had learned it. He read on: 

_“Power, despite common belief, is the least relevant of these factors,"_ Harry raised an eyebrow at that. _“While it does play its part, it only really matters for more advanced magics the likes of the Patronus Charm and the infamous Unforgivable Curses. Control is broader, but likewise matters more importantly in advanced spells, particularly in the Dark Arts._

_“Intent, however, is always a factor. Intent is what can mark the difference between a lethal spell and a simple house-hold charm. Take for example, the Severing Charm. Yes, the Severing Charm can be lethal. Try it on your hand if you don’t believe me, but I advise you test with your non-dominant wand hand.”_

Harry felt no need to test Rookwood’s claim as he remembered all too well when his desperately used the Severing Charm to split open the forehead of that monstrous troll back in October. When the first year Ravenclaw felt a cold shiver pass through his body at remembering that night, he told himself it was the chilly wind and continued reading: 

_“Now that you are suitably convinced (and one hand the lesser for the foolish readers) consider what other such marvels that can cause. A mere utterance of “Ventus” the wind using jinx, can take the breathe of an adversary as easily as ruffle a bit of hair for a Play-Witch advert. Similarly the Knockback Jinx can break a man’s head and the Fire-Making Spell can burn a woman alive."_

The eleven year old reader grimaced in disgust at the images that came to mind. 

_“For this reason, a simplistic understanding of the Dark Arts as ‘that which does harm’ is as inaccurate as it is stupid. Dark Arts should be deemed as such by the nature of intent required to utilize it. A lust for violence to use the Cruciatus Curse, as an example. But the important thing to remember is that all magic requires the intent of its wizard or witch. Only young children (or pathetic Mudbloods) have trouble with uncontrolled magic because they have not focused the intent of the spells. Because without intent--"_

An echoed cheer tore Harry’s attention from the book. The cheer, of course, came for the direction of the Quidditch pitch and was likely the result of some terrific goal made by… someone. Rolling his eyes in the direction of the pitch in good natured amusement, the young Potter sent a glance down towards the forest below when he caught a glimpse of purple. Curious, Harry looked over the ledge he had been leaning against only to recognize the figure of Professor Quirrell making his way into the Forbidden Forest. 

“What is he doing running around?” he had time to wonder before two smaller figures came a moment latter and followed the Defense teacher into the forest. One of which Harry recognized by the bushy hair of Hermione Granger. “And what is she doing?” 

More than a little curious, Harry found himself closing the black book and making his way towards one of the castle’s many stairways before he had time to even think about why. The thought of the muggle-born Granger following Professor Quirrell around, though, brought an uncomfortable twinge in his chest he did not care to think about. Whatever it was, he rushed down the stairs and outside of the castle at a near running pace. Making a sharp turn around one of the Hogwarts columns before running towards the forest. 

Remembering vaguely the direction he had seen Quirrell and Granger run in, Harry attempted to give chase. The Forbidden Forest, even in mid-day, was thick enough with trees that light itself seemed to die the moment the Ravenclaw boy stepped inside as the layers of trees blocked out the sun. Fortunately for Harry, most of the forest’s inhabitants seemed to be nocturnal as, apart from a few odd scrapping and crackling noises, he could faintly catch the sound of snapping branches coming from further in. 

Making his way deeper inside, the young Potter pulled his Blackthorn and Ash wand from his robes as he found a stretch of stomped on ground that led even deeper inside, in the direction of the snapping sounds. Moving more quickly, Harry dodged his way passed a couple more trees before coming to a sudden halt. 

Just ahead of him were two students in his year. One, of course, was Hermione Granger and the other was, surprisingly, the Boy-Who-Lived: Neville Longbottom. The two Gryffindors were crouched on the ground and hiding behind a tree they were taking quick glances behind. 

Eying the both of them suspiciously, Harry Potter aimed his wand at them before stepping out from where he was still hidden. As he came closer, he called out, “What are you doing!?” 

They reacted immediately as Longbottom turned around in fright, fumbling around in his robes, and Granger spun around with her wand already in hand. Ready to curse them, a spell set on his lips, Harry stopped when the muggle-born girl lowered her wand and, of all things, _shushed_ him! 

“Shush!” hissed Granger with a finger raised to her mouth. She then motioned towards the tree they were hiding behind and whispered, “Quirrell…” 

Remembering the two had been following Professor Quirrell, the only Ravenclaw student there made his way slowly towards the tree, but before he even reached it he could already hear voices. “Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet?” That was Professor Snape! 

Crouching behind Granger, Harry looked over the bushy haired girl’s head to see professors Snape and Quirrell standing in a shadowy clearing. Quirrell was wearing his usual bright purple robes and turban while seemingly shaking like the falling leaves that surrounded him. Snape, in contrast, seemed as calm and collected as the snake on Slytherin house’s crest. 

“B-b-but Severus, I—“ was Quirrell’s stuttered reply. He was stuttering again, Harry noted, so he must be very nervous. He only stutters when he is nervous. 

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” hissed Snape. “I saw you there the night the troll broke in. You were making your way towards the stone! Never could find out how you got there so fast…” 

“I-I was checking the s-s-stone, same as you!” insisted Quirrell, his lips quivering. 

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Snape smoothly. “What is it, then? Are you after it for yourself, or…?” The Hogwarts potions master seemed to trail off, hinting at something. Quirrell merely looked terrified. “Very well. Keep your secrets, but know I will be watching you.” Turning with his typical flair of his black robes, Snape said, “But try and remember where your loyalties truly lie.” 

So said Severus Snape disappeared into the forest, making his way back towards the castle. Quirrell released a shaky breathe before also moving into the forest, seemingly heading deeper inside. 

“See, Hermione, I told you,” spoke the cracking voice of Neville Longbottom. “It’s him. He’s after the stone!” 

“It looks like you were right,” was Granger’s slow response. “But why?” 

“Hold on there,” interrupted Harry, his eyes shifting between the two Gryffindors. “What stone? And why are you two following professors?” 

Longbottom seemed to hesitate, but the muggle-born Granger wasted no time. Puffing out her chest in that way Harry had seen her do when she was about to answer a really tough question in class, Granger asked, “Have you ever heard of Nicholas Flamel?” 

Harry scoffed, answering, “Of course I have; everyone in the magical world has. He’s that famous alchemist who created the—“ Emerald eyes widened as he finished. “ _Philosopher’s Stone!_ You mean that is what they were taking about?” 

“Th-that’s the theory, anyway,” mumbled Longbottom. “I managed to overhear Professor Sprout mention Flamel’s name when I was in the infirmary. I recognized the name at once! He’s only really famous for the one thing, too, so--” 

“Which is a shame, really!” interrupted Granger. “Because he’s done lots more in the field of—“ 

Both Harry and Neville ignored her. “ _So_ we’ve,” continued Longbottom, gesturing to the two Gryffindors. “Been looking into it. The corridor Professor Dumbledore said was closed-off has a magically sealed door in it.” 

“Very advanced, too,” added Granger. “I’ve never even read about anything like it.” 

“So they have it locked away behind one door?” wondered Harry. “That doesn’t seem like much.” 

“But there is more!” insisted the only girl present with a screech. “Each of the professors have contributed something to guarding the stone.” 

At the Ravenclaw’s skeptical look, Longbottom explained, “Professor Sprout said the plant that attacked me before break – the Devil’s Snare – was meant for something the head-master asked her for. Said he had asked everybody to help with it. It’s got to be the stone!” 

“That explains the stone,” said Harry. “But not why you are following two professors. You already said every teacher is helping to guard the stone.” 

“Because Neville thinks he’s found the culprit!” answered Granger. “Tell him, Neville!” 

Longbottom seemed to blush, of all things. “It’s… It’s silly, really,” the boy mumbled. When the bushy haired girl glared at him, he added, “He wouldn’t believe me, anyway.” 

“Just tell him already!” 

“Fine!” surrendered the Boy-Who-Lived. “It’s my scar!” 

“Your scar?” asked a confused Potter, his eyes drifting to the top of the taller boy’s head to see a lightning bolt shaped scar. “What about it?” 

“It hurts whenever they’re around,” answered Longbottom. “I first noticed it in class—“ 

That was as far as he got when Harry realized what he was referring to. “You think it’s a teacher!?” he said aloud. “Look, I know Professor Snape bullies you sometimes, but—“ 

“It’s not Snape!” said Neville Longbottom. “It’s Quirrell!” 

Harry felt his blood go cold. “Professor Quirrell?” he wondered. The teacher with a nervous stutter who had been helping Harry all year? 

“Exactly!” nodded Longbottom. “I first noticed it just before break! When Quirrell started to get sick and fall asleep in class. Whenever he did, or whenever he looked at me, my scar would start to burn.” 

“Quirrell was also the one who told us about the troll on Hallowe’en,” added Granger. “And that was the same night Professor Snape said he caught Quirrell sneaking into the third floor corridor. He was going after the stone then! He probably let the troll loose as a distraction and---“ 

“He wouldn’t!” shouted Harry, surprising the other two first years. “I—I was there when the troll was loose. It nearly killed me!” His voice was frantic, he could vaguely tell, but what they were saying! “I refuse to believe Professor Quirrell would do that!” 

“I know how you feel,” said Granger gently, completely missing the flash of anger in Harry’s eyes. “I didn’t want to believe a professor could do this either, but you have to see the facts…” 

“You have no idea how I feel, Granger!” snapped the only Potter child. “And your facts are pure speculation and Longbottom’s headaches! That’s not proof!” 

“That’s why we were following him,” defended the muggle-born. “We noticed he left the Quidditch game early, just after Professor Snape did. With so many people at the game this is a perfect time for a secret meeting.” 

“A secret meeting to what? Swap plans for stealing the stone? Are you accusing Snape now, too?” Harry was not yelling, but he was close. The way Granger seemed to shrink back told him it must have showed. 

“Snape doesn’t seem to want the stone,” said Longbottom, raising his hands in peace. “From what we can tell he is actually trying to catch the person who’s after it.” 

“Like Quirrell!” hissed Harry. “You said every professor is helping, right? So he can’t be trying to get it. He would have no reason to help if he was after it for himself.” 

“He’s lying!” was Granger’s retort. “He’s helping them so he can learn what protections they’ve added and get around them. The stone can make piles of gold and the owner can be immortal. That's reason enough for anybody.” 

Shooting the muggle-born girl a dark glare, Harry could feel his lip curling in disgust. “So you’re accusing him of trying to kill me because he’s just a greedy liar, is that right?” Ignoring Granger’s reply, the emerald eyed boy turned to Longbottom. “If you’re so convinced, why haven’t you gone to Professor Dumbledore yet?” 

“We tried going to Professor McGonagall already, when we first learned about the stone,” he answered. “But she said it wasn’t a student’s job to worry about it.” 

“And it’s not!” agreed Harry. “Let the professors protect the stone. Even if you’re right – which you’re not! – and Quirrell is after the stone, Snape is already suspicious of him. You’re just interfering and throwing around baseless claims with no proof.” 

“We’re just trying to help,” was Granger’s indignant defense. “We only even told you all this so you wouldn’t report us.” 

“Please, Harry!” pleaded Neville Longbottom. “Don’t tell anyone about this!” 

Holding back the urge to yell or curse the both of them, Harry released a growl of frustration before saying, “Fine! I won’t tell anyone about what you’re doing, but you need to stop. If someone really is after the stone, a couple of first years won’t be able to do anything about it. Especially since you’re wrong about Professor Quirrell.” 

“We can’t promi—“ Granger tried to say before...

“We will be careful,” interrupted Longbottom. “And thank you. For not telling, I mean.” 

Harry Potter actually scoffed at that. “You’re not Aurors so don’t act like you are,” was all he said before making his way back towards the castle. 

Not bothering to look back and see if the duo of Gryffindors was leaving too, Harry ignored that small part of his mind that said something was going on. “It’s not Quirrell,” muttered Harry to that part. “It’s not.” The man who had been nothing but nice and helpful to him could not be the same person who set that troll loose and tried to kill him. There was no way.

Whatever was going on, Harry decided, he would be keeping a close eye on Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom from now on.

  **TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first real taste of the book’s contents and the plot to steal the stone thickens. It is going to be an interesting next couple of chapters. Make sure to leave your Kudos and comment to let me know how you feel!


	13. Challenge of the Second

Despite Granger and Longbottom’s suspicions the two seemed content to watch Professor Quirrell from afar. Ravenclaw did not share Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Gryffindors so Harry Potter was able to put it out of his mind rather quickly, only sending the two the occasional pointed look as they passed in the corridors. 

He was helped in this as the seasons shifted, cold wind turned to hot, and the change brought with it a return of many sleepless nights in Ravenclaw Tower catching up on homework. Professors McGonagall and Snape, in particular, seemed determined to make them work again. Even Harry, who fared better than most, found himself busy enough he did not have time to worry about magical stones. 

“I’ve had it!” yelled Terry Boot, disrupting the Ravenclaw first year group’s study session. Hogwarts librarian Irma Pince was quick to silence the boy for his effort. Much quieter, Boot said, “Why does Binns want us to do this? Who cares about some Goblin rebellion hundreds of years ago?” 

Anthony Goldstein, who sat beside him working on a Transfiguration paper, laughed. “Why care about the race that handles our Galleons?” he asked sarcastically. 

“It’s not my Galleons,” was his grumbled response. Turning to his other side, Boot watched as Harry Potter sat going over his own work. “Hey, Harry, can I borrow your history notes?” 

Waving his hand distractedly, the emerald eyed youth said, “Yeah, sure. It’s over there.” He pointed to the pile of books in the middle of the table. 

“What’s got you so busy?” asked Michael Corner across from him, looking up from his Astronomy charts. “You’re usually so far ahead of us. Don’t you study all the time when you’re not with Anthony?” 

Sighing, Harry looked up before answering, “I’m not always studying, Corner. Besides, Professor Snape’s potions essay is really getting me and it’s due tomorrow.” 

“What?!” shouted Boot, earning another glare from Pince. “I forgot about that one. I haven’t even started it yet!” He then reached for his potions book and began desperately flipping through it. 

“I thought you were good with potions?” asked Corner. 

“I’m alright, but Snape is expecting more from me,” explained Harry, filling out a list of ingredients for the Forgetfulness potion. “If it’s just ‘alright’ he might fail me.” 

“Hard to imagine final exams are just a couple months away,” mused Anthony Goldstein. “Soon we are going to have to put together some study groups for the finals.” 

Boot and Corner, buried in their own respective work, groaned. Looking up from his frantic writing for his potions work, Terry Boot made a vaguely hissing noise. “Could we get through this work before we start planning for finals?” 

Finishing his potions work with one last dramatic sweep of his quill, Harry Potter smiled happily. “I wouldn’t mind a few early study sessions,” he said, turning towards Goldstein. 

“Thought you would be interested,” nodded Anthony Goldstein. To Boot and Corner, he asked, “What about you two?” 

Boot growled, busy as he was with his rushed potions work, and Corner just looked sad. “Maybe later,” was Michael Corner’s answer. “Don’t let my tie color fool you: I am not a study addict like you and Harry.” 

“Sounds like you should have been a Gryffindor,” laughed Goldstein, causing the other boy to buff out his chest in defense. 

“I got in for my creativity, not study habits!” 

As he watched Goldstein and Corner debate what it meant to be a proud member of Ravenclaw house, Harry found his mind drifting. He had been so busy with his lessons, with his private study sessions, with Rookwood’s book, and with having fun he wondered if he really had missed something important all year. 

How did that troll get in the castle? It had nearly killed him and he could not remember anyone ever telling him how or why it was even there. Longbottom and Granger accused Professor Quirrell, but that did not make sense. Maybe he could… 

“Hey, Harry,” a smiling Goldstein pulled him from his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” 

“Just wondering if Professor Quirrell could help me with something,” answered Harry, not actually lying as he wondered what Quirrell might know about the stone. 

“I thought Defense was one of your best subjects?” asked Boot. 

“It is,” the Potter boy nodded. “But I could always use the extra help.” 

“Might have to wait,” added Corner. “I heard he cancelled all his classes for the rest of the week.” 

“Really?” Boot sounded excited; likely for the lighter class load. “He give a reason?” 

“Not really, but who cares? Less class work is always a good thing.” 

“He has been getting awfully pale looking,” said Anthony Goldstein at Harry’s concerned look. “Maybe he just needs a few days?”  

Sending a brief smile the other boy’s way, Harry said, “Sounds like a good time to get some spell practice done.” Boot and Corner rolled their eyes at him, but Anthony just laughed.

* * *

 

In absence of a Defense class, Quirrell had assigned a brief paper on the everyday use of counter spells. Harry, Anthony, and most everyone else in Ravenclaw finished it in a single sitting and that left them some unexpected free time in the midst of final exam preparations. 

While Terry Boot and Michael Corner made their way towards the Quidditch pitch, likely to spy on the practicing teams getting ready for the final couple of games, Harry had other plans. 

Dropping the book on the desk with a loud slam, the emerald eyed Potter fixed Anthony with a challenging look. The two first years had found an out of the way classroom on the first floor to once again practice dueling; one of Harry’s many places he used to read Rookwood’s book or learn new spells. Today was little different. 

“Okay,” nodded Anthony in confusion. “You brought a book.” 

“Not just any book,” explained Harry, tapping the book’s title. “This is Miranda Goshawk’s Standard Book of Spells, _Grade 2_! I checked it out from the library the other day.” 

“That part wasn’t what confused me. Why is it here?” 

“You remember the other day when Draco Malfoy supposedly used the Knockback Jinx?” reminded Harry with a mischievous smirk. “I’ve been practicing and I think I can finally do it.” 

Nodding his head, Anthony Goldstein invited, “Alright, show me.” 

“Ah, but how about we try it some other way?” suggested Harry as he withdrew his wand. “Care for a friendly duel? I promise I will only be using the Knockback Jinx.” 

“I could use an easy win,” smiled the other boy, also pulling out his wand as he took a few steps back. “On your count.” 

“You ready?” asked Harry, his wand already set between his eyes. 

“Ready on three,” answered Anthony across from him. 

As emerald eyes met bright blue, the two bowed shortly before rising up.

“One,” said Harry as pointed his slightly crooked wand forward. 

“Two,” counted Anthony, aiming his wand forward at the hip. 

“Three!” finished Harry, his first spell already set on his lips when— 

“ _Tarantallegra!_ ” whispered Anthony, his waist high wand making the ‘n’ motion of the Dancing Feet charm. Harry barely managed to avoid the spell by diving to the side. 

Countering, Harry shouted, “Flipendo!” With a short flick of his Blackthorn and Ash wand he thrust it forward… and fired a puff of white smoke. 

Anthony, seeing the failure, laughed before returning with a muttered, “Tarant—“ But that was as far as he got. 

Thinking back on what Quirrell and Rookwood’s book told him, Harry focused on his intent to use the spell before jamming his wand forward again and hissing, “ _Flipendo!_ ” His words caught between his teeth, Anthony was struck by a blue light before crashing into a desk behind him. 

The victor of this match, Harry rushed forward to check on the taller boy. “You okay?” he asked, extending his hand to the downed boy. 

“Just fine,” Anthony chuckled, taking the offered hand. “But I hope you realize this means I am going to beat you twice as hard the next time we play Wizard’s Chess.” 

Pulling him up, Harry smirked, “So like every other time.” The two boys shared a laugh before something occurred to him. “You whispered your spell, right? I barely even heard it. If I hadn’t been watching your wand, I probably would’ve missed it.” 

“I did,” nodded the Goldstein boy. “Until we can learn silent spell work, which is years off, I figured it was next best thing. What about you, though? The Knockback Jinx as a first year?” 

“I was serious before about Ravenclaw pride,” answered Harry with a shrug. “If Draco Malfoy can do it, so can we.” 

“Just wasn’t expecting you to actually be able to use a second year spell. Now I’m going to have to practice more just to catch up.” 

Harry welcomed the challenge and when Anthony beat him at Wizard’s Chess that night, he did not even feel bad. All this time worrying about classes, Death Eater books, and now magical stones had left him drained and it was moments like these that let him catch his breathe. 

But as he fell asleep that night in Ravenclaw Tower, Harry wished he could stop the feeling that things were about to get much worse. 

* * *

Whatever the feeling was, Harry was able to put it from his mind in time for Ravenclaw’s next class the following afternoon: History of Magic. The subject’s notorious ghost teacher, Professor Cuthbert Binns, stood in-front of the class and gave another of his dull lectures in empty and droning tones that did their best to sap any interest from the lesson. 

As they usually did for the class, Terry Boot was using his history book as a pillow while he slept and Michael Corner was drawing small circles on a piece of parchment. Anthony tried to focus, but was clearly struggling to stay awake as his eyes would drift closed only to snap open the next second. Half-way through class he finally lost that battle and was sleeping as soundly as Boot. 

Harry Potter, the only one capable of staying awake through sheer force of stubborn willpower, tried to ignore the tiredness that scratched at his eyes and focus on his note taking for the day’s subject: Elfric the Eager, one of the many Goblins the ghostly professor loved to lecture on. Harry was just about to write how Elfric the Eager got his name when he heard the sharp whispering from behind him. 

Turning to look over his shoulder, the Ravenclaw Potter remembered another reason he was always able to stay awake in Binns’ class: Hermione Granger. The muggle-born Gryffindor seemed to actually be immune to the physically draining nature of Binns’ voice. 

“She’s usually sitting up front, though,” wondered Harry aloud. He had actually managed to forget Ravenclaw and Gryffindor shared the class because he had not seen the annoying girl yet today. 

“Be quiet, Neville,” Granger was "whispering" not so quietly. The Boy-Who-Lived, of course, sat at her side with a snoring Fay Dunbar on her other side. “We’re in the middle of class!” 

“But Hermione,” Longbottom was better at whispering than his bushy haired friend, but his voice still carried. “We might not get another chance at this! He’s been gone for days already.” 

“What you’re suggesting is against the rules,” disagreed Granger. 

“But he knows something, I swear,” pleaded Longbottom. “We just need some proof! Then McGonagall or Sprout can handle it.” The two finally began to whisper between themselves and no matter how he strained his ears, Harry could not hear them anymore. 

They were talking about the stone, Harry realized. Some new clue or something. Turning to stare furiously towards Binns, Harry thought, ‘ _Even after I told them to stop, they are still worrying about the stone. I should report them to—_ ‘ But something stopped him; a question that had been getting to him since his last talk with the two Gryffindors. Who let the troll in? 

‘ _They’re not talking about going after the person who did it,_ ’ reasoned Harry. ‘ _Just looking for clues._ ’ Lately he had been wondering if there was something he had been missing all year. Maybe this was it? 

For the first time Harry really wanted History of Magic to end and not just because the class was boring. The moment class finally did end, Harry quickly gathered his things and started making his way for the door. Anthony Goldstein sent a half yawned, “Harry, wait!” his way, but he ignored it. 

Granger and Longbottom were already gone. Working his way through the crowd of Gryffindors blocking the exit of Binns’ classroom, Harry pushed past them and into the hall. Quickly looking around, emerald eyes caught a brief flash of bushy brown hair slipping around a corner and out of sight. 

Giving chase, Harry made his way around the corner in time to see Longbottom leading a frowning Hermione Granger down the ever shifting stairs of Hogwarts castle. Thankfully, at this time of day, the stairs were seemingly polite enough to at least be leading down towards the Great Hall, but the Gryffindors made their way for the second floor. 

“What’s on the second floor they could—“ wondered Harry only to realize. “Quirrell’s classroom! He’s ill so they must want to search it.” Sighing in frustration, Harry jumped off the stairs just as it dried to float back up and landed on the second floor corridor entrance. 

Rushing down the hall, Harry had to take cover behind a column not long after as he saw the two Gryffindors standing outside Professor Quirrell’s classroom. 

“Come on, Hermione,” urged Longbottom. “Unlock the door before somebody comes!” 

“Are you sure?” asked Granger reluctantly. “We’re not supposed to be here! We might lose points or get detention or—“ 

“Relax, it’s fine,” assured Longbottom softly. “We can just say it was already unlocked or something.” 

Granger did not look convinced, but nodded nonetheless. Withdrawing her wand, the muggle-born aimed it at the door handle and said, “ _Alohomora!_ ” The Unlocking Charm did its job and the resulting click of the door opening echoed through the hall. 

“You did it!” cheered the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry rolled his eyes; it was just a simple charm. Granger, however, blushed and the two disappeared inside the classroom before closing the door behind them. 

Stepping out from where he had been hiding, the Ravenclaw fixed the door with a contemplating look. “I am tempted to try locking the door and leaving them there to get caught,” he considered since he already knew the Locking Spell, too. “But Granger would probably just undo it before anyone showed.” 

A frown marred Harry’s face. He had been hoping the two might have found a new suspect or clue, but they seemed convinced Quirrell was responsible. Could the same man who had helped Harry so much all year really be the same person who tried to kill him with the troll? Harry did not think so. 

“If I let them go on like this it is just going to cause trouble for the professor,” reasoned Harry. Deep inside a small part of him also whispered that, should it be discovered, Headmaster Dumbledore would probably have a problem with Professor Quirrell giving out Death Eater books to first years, too. 

Decided, Harry took hold of the classroom door and pulled, opening the door as quietly as he could before stepping inside and closing it behind him. The classroom reminded Harry of the way it had been when Quirrell first gave him Rookwood’s book: empty and very spacious, accustomed as he was to seeing entire classes filling the room. Surprisingly, it was also absent of any annoying Gryffindors. 

The classroom itself was empty, but Harry could see a light silhouetting a door along the back wall. The Ravenclaw first-year tried to think of a time he had seen the door open, but could not think of any. 

“Granger! Longbottom!” he called out, deciding that is where they were. “Come out already!” Immediately, Harry heard a banging noise come from the door and what sounded like Longbottom groaning in pain. A few seconds later the door slowly began to open, revealing— 

Neville Longbottom with his trembling hand grasped on to his wand that was now pointed at Harry. Quickly reaching for his own, Harry’s snapped up in seconds: Harry's crooked black wand meeting Longbottom’s angular white one. 

The Boy-Who-Lived held his stance and just as Harry was about to send the first spell, the wand dropped and Neville Longbottom let out a deep sigh of relief. “You scarred me there,” he muttered between breathes. “Thought you were Quirrell, come to catch us.” 

“Clearly not,” drawled Harry as he lowered his wand, too. “What do you think you’re doing here?” 

“I told you this was a bad idea,” said Granger as she also left the backroom. 

Longbottom ignored her, choosing to answer the Ravenclaw’s question, “We were looking for proof Quirrell is trying to get the stone. Books on Flamel he might be reading, maps of the third floor corridor he might have, even the bait he used to lure the troll in--“ 

“I told you it wasn’t Quirrell!” snapped Harry, his emerald eyes narrowing. “Why can’t you get that!” Longbottom seemed at a loss for words. Granger, however: 

“We know what you said!” she was quick to assure. “But Neville insisted we check. There’s no harm in that, right?” 

“No harm in—“ Harry found himself pausing, forcing down the anger he was feeling at these stupid Gryffindors! “You could have gotten detention or lost points! You should be studying for finals, not playing hero!” 

Granger seemed to be sending him looks that said something along the lines of: “That’s what I said!” but Longbottom looked like he was wrestling with his tongue. When the Boy-Who-Lived finally seemed to settle on an answer, he voice was flat and quiet, “Some things are more important.” 

“What did you say?” demanded Harry. “Did you—?“ 

“I said some things are more important!” shouted Neville Longbottom, surprising both Harry and Hermione Granger. “I wish I could just sit back and study like you! I wish I could play games and have fun all the time, but I can’t! I’m not willing to sit around while there is something bad going on and I can stop it.” 

Harry blinked. For a brief and solitary second Harry thought he might have actually seen the _Boy-Who-Lived_ for the first time; then he realized he was talking to an eleven year old and the thought left him. In its place was anger. “You don’t know anything about me!” hissed Harry. “Just because you got that scar on your head you think you can talk down to everyone! Well, not me! You’re a first year, same as me, and have no business accusing anybody of anything!” 

Longbottom’s eyes narrowed and just as he was about to speak again, Granger interrupted: “We get it! We’ll stop.” 

Harry was prevented from giving a reply when the classroom door behind him opened up. “Harry?” came the questioning voice of Anthony Goldstein. “Michael said he saw you coming this way. Everything alright?” He stopped when he saw the glaring Neville Longbottom. 

“I’m fine,” said Harry. “Just checking on these Gryffindors.” Sending a pointed look towards Granger, Harry turned to eye the other Gryffindor as he said, “I think we’re done here.” 

Turning on his feet, the emerald eyed Potter made his way towards Anthony. Neville Longbottom, it seemed, thought differently as he brushed passed Harry, whispering, “I’m not going to listen to you. If you’re too scared then just stay out of it.” 

Harry stilled. His whole body frozen in place, he did not even see the apologetic look Granger sent his way as she followed her friend out the door. 

“That was weird,” said Anthony Goldstein as they left. “I’m surprised to see you with Granger, too. I thought you hated her. Now come on, we have Charms class in just a few minutes down the hall. Everyone is waiting.” 

Harry heard none of that. ‘ _He thinks I’m scared?_ ’ thought Harry, the question burning in his mind like dragon’s breathe. ‘ _What gives him the right? Did he fight a troll!? Did he have what it takes to read Rookwood’s book!? Quirrell already told me: the only thing I fear is that I don’t fear._ ’ 

Before he realized it, his legs were already on the move as Harry made his way pass Anthony without a glance or thought; his mind only on one thing. He made his way out of Quirrell’s classroom in a few quick strides and found himself in the second floor corridor again. As he turned, he could still see Longbottom and Granger making their way down the hall. 

Without a thought, he called out, “You can’t just leave!” The two Gryffindors stopped and turned his direction. Granger with a look of confusion and Longbottom with a look that seemed torn between the same and annoyance. “We’re not done yet!” 

“Please, Harry,” sighed Granger, her eyes bouncing between the two boys. “Can’t we just settle this?” 

“That’s what we’re going to do,” said Harry, making his way towards the two. “If you insist on trying to play real wizard, I’m going to prove to both of you how wrong you are.” Coming to a stop, Harry Potter pointed his finger at the two. “I, Harry James Potter, challenge Hermione Granger to a Wizard’s Duel. Only wands – no contact. We meet during free period three days from now in the Courtyard.” 

“You challenge me to a what?” Granger seemed clueless. 

Neville Longbottom seemed to settle on annoyance. “She accepts; I’m her second. You?” 

If he could beat Granger, the better at magic of the two, it would prove they stood no chance against the person who let the troll in; that’s what Harry kept telling himself. It had nothing to do with what Longbottom said, or how he felt about Granger, or anything else! 

That thought firmly in mind, Harry smirked and said, “Anthony Goldstein, of course. Not that he’ll need to—“ 

“I won’t do it,” interrupted a familiar voice. Snapping around, Harry saw that it was Anthony. “I won’t be your second.” 

“B-but why?” asked Harry confused. 

“You’ve had a problem with Granger since the train ride in September. I don’t know what it is, but Stephen says…” 

“Stephen Cornfoot is a liar!” yelled Harry. “And why would my problem with Granger matter for—“ _Oh…_ Anthony did not know about Longbottom and the stone; Harry had never told him. From his perspective, he had just challenged Granger to a duel because— 

“This has nothing to do with that!” he tried to explain. “This is about—“ 

“It doesn’t matter,” Anthony shook his head. “I won’t help you with whatever this is.” 

“Fine!” Turning to Longbottom, he said, “Terry Boot will—“ 

“Wow-wow! I can’t even duel!” said the unmistakable voice of Terry Boot. Harry’s eyes widened as he saw the entirety of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor houses standing there; watching him. Why are they…? Right. They shared Charms together and Professor Flitwick’s class is just down the hall. 

“Corner, then,” shrugged Harry as Michael Corner seemed to shrink behind Boot. Who else is there? Eyes widening, Harry looked towards the brown eyes of Stephen Cornfoot. 

“Not a chance,” scoffed Cornfoot, meeting his gaze with a cold glare. 

Harry Potter went cold; everyone he know in Ravenclaw house, all his _friends_ , would abandon him? Who could he ask? There was no one else who would… 

“Close your mouth, Potter,” came the dismissive, mocking, and grating voice of Lisa Turpin. The girl stepped forward from the crowd of Ravenclaw students to stand at Harry’s side. “I, Lisa Turpin, will be his second.” 

Granger blinked in confusion as Longbottom shrugged and said, “Three days from now, the Courtyard. See you there!” He then stormed off, making his way towards the open Charms classroom doors with the muggle-born Granger a cautious step behind. 

Slowly, one by one, each Gryffindor and Ravenclaw first year finally pulled themselves away from the spectacle they had just seen, the occasional Ravenclaw sending Harry a remorseful look, until only Harry Potter and Lisa Turpin remained. 

The only Potter child found his legs numb and his throat very dry. He had been trying to stop them from pestering Quirrell, right? What was so bad about trying to prove how dangerous what they were doing is? 

“Keep standing there and we’re going to be late for class,” griped Lisa Turpin. “I hope you can duel better than you can handle peer pressure.” 

His mind refocusing, Harry found himself focusing on one thing: the girl before him. “Why did you do that?” 

“Step in and save you from further public humiliation?” asked Turpin rhetorically. “I believe I told you before, didn’t I?” 

“Tell me again, then,” sighed Harry, all the fight leaving him for the day in that single breathe. 

Lisa Turpin smiled and said the answer he was both expecting and at the same time surprised him: 

“We’re friends.” 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	14. To Whine & Dine

No matter how much he tried to think otherwise, Harry Potter felt like people were watching him; probably because they were. He did his best to ignore the side-long glances from the Gryffindors and the stares from his fellow Ravenclaws that ranged from guilty to judging. Harry blocked out the looks as he stared forward resolutely, but he could still feel their eyes on him. 

Harry also made a point to ignore the very existence of Anthony Goldstein; a feat made much easier as everyone seemed intent on avoiding him. Not a single seat, anywhere near him and in any direction, was occupied. Well, except for one. 

Sending a short look to his side, he saw her: Lisa Turpin sat one seat down from him with her usual unreadable and dispassionate expression. She seemed to be ignoring everyone with equal disinterest. Professor Flitwick was currently engaged in a lecture regarding some subject or another, but she just looked blankly forward and Harry could not even tell if she was listening. 

Come to think of it, the emerald eyed Potter was not even sure what the short charms master was talking about. Usually this late into class he would be grinding his teeth as the know-it-all Hermione Granger rattled off every answer before trying to beat her by giving the answer first, but even she seemed to have quieted down. Harry refused to give-up and look behind him, to see if she was getting the same looks he was, and kept watching Flitwick talk yet failed to hear a word of it. 

‘ _What have I done?_ ’ he found himself asking. ‘ _Why did I challenge her to a duel? Because Longbottom was being an idiot? Because they’re both accusing Professor Quirrell?_ ’ Each thought buzzed in his head, refusing to be ignored, before being slammed closed and replaced by another as equally annoying. ‘ _Is this a Muggle thing? Is that why I did this?_ ’ The Sorting Hat, Stephen Cornfoot, and now even Anthony Goldstein seemed to think so, but… 

“ _No!_ ” he hissed quietly under his breathe, earning a side-long glance from Turpin. ‘ _This has nothing to do with that! It doesn’t! I don’t like her, yes, but that’s because she’s annoying. But then why?_ ’ 

“Can anyone tell me why that might be?” asked the squeaky voice of Professor Filius Flitwick. When no-one, not even Harry Potter or Hermione Granger moved to speak, he seemed startled and sent a questioning look towards both of them. 

Harry met the professor’s eyes with a nervous glance before looking down, still brushing thoughts from his mind. ‘ _Longbottom thinks he’s some kind of hero and Granger is nothing but a fan-girl,_ ’ the latest was telling him. ‘ _But he’s also a mediocre wizard. He only gets by in class because the muggle-born is whispering in his ear constantly. Beating him would mean nothing, but beating her?_ ’ 

All year, from the train ride to the classroom, everywhere he turned, it was her name: Hermione Granger, the perfect muggle-born student. The Ravenclaw-But-Not little Gryffindor girl who passed every test and knew every spell. It was only when Harry felt the pain in his hands that he realized he was squeezing them so hard. 

When Flitwick finally released them from class, Harry quickly gathered what few things he had taken out before pushing his way through the crowd of students and back out into the hall. He could faintly hear the sound of someone calling for him, but he was anxious to get away from everyone: Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. 

Thankfully Charms was the last class of the day, but Harry could not bare the thought of sitting at the Great Hall – with every Ravenclaw talking about his challenge, staring at him – and the Tower was even worse since he shared a room with Stephen Cornfoot and Terry Boot. Normally he would hide away in some empty classroom to read or practice his spell-work, but today he felt truly drained. 

His feet moving blindly, Harry moved aimlessly down the halls; no destination in mind. It was only when he felt the cold blistering winds of a Hogwarts night did he notice his feet had taken him to one of the many out-door archways spread across the castle. Even as early into the evening as it was, he could already hear the hum of noise coming from the direction of the Great Hall, but he could not bring himself to look. 

Releasing a sigh into the early dusk air, he braced himself against the stone ledge and stared blindly over the edge. “What have I done?” he found his lips moving to say, puffing vapors of air into the cold. “Anthony, Boot, even Corner? What happened back there?” 

“Is this what you always do?” came a condescending tone behind him. Swirling around, cloudy emerald eyes met shining light brown as Lisa Turpin made her way towards him. “Mope and whine the moment your ‘friends' disagree with you?” 

“Like you are any expert!” sniped Harry, feeling a brief flash of anger towards the girl. “You don’t have any friends.” 

“I’m hurt,” she lied. “I thought _we_ were friends.” When the boy tried to yell this time, she added, “Oh, stop complaining. At this point I might as well be considering how everyone else just left you.” 

There was no mistaking the hurt that flashed in his eyes and Turpin's smirk of victory only proved it. Looking away from her, he mumbled, “You don’t know anything about them.” 

“You’re right, I don’t,” she agreed with a faux cheery smile. “And I’m gladder for it. I told you before: you can’t pretend what you are forever.” 

“Oh,” he rolled his eyes, not that she could see, before turning his head to ask. “What am I, then?” 

“A racist, insecure, fowl tempered little boy,” she listed off each easily, counting them off on her fingers for dramatic effect. “With delusions of grandeur and some-how also self-esteem issues.” 

Harry blinked, not sure what to say. When he finally did speak, it was a confused, “Am not…” 

“Witty as always,” scoffed Turpin. 

His face flushing red, Harry griped, “Well you are a racist, fowl tempered little girl with just plain delusions!” 

“Great!” cheered Turpin happily, making the Potter child wonder, not for the first time, if she was insane. “Glad you can see why we’re friends!” 

Feeling what he was sure was the sign of a head-ache forming, Harry sighed. “Talking with you is exhausting…” 

“I’m sure it’s not as exhausting as I feel watching you try to pretend to be friends with idiots like Cornfoot and Boot.” 

“Cornfoot just happened to be the first person I really met; seemed like it was a good place to start. Boot and Corner were just sort of there. Anthony—“ He stopped himself there, not sure about that one. 

“Goldstein I could see,” nodded Turpin. “But he’s too much of a people pleaser.” When Harry sent her a questioning look, she laughed. “You really haven’t noticed? He’s friendly with everybody! Boot, Cornfoot, Padma Patil, that Hufflepuff Ernie Macmillan, and the list goes on. I’ve even seen him talking with Blaise Zabini from Slytherin a few times. You, Potter, picked a people pleaser for a best mate. Or a future Dark Lord just making connections.” 

“H-he’s just nice,” defended Harry, surprised by Anthony’s long list of acquaintances. “There’s nothing wrong with having friends!” 

“No, of course not,” agreed Turpin, a thin smile forming on her lips. “But I just can’t trust anybody that open. I mean you got to think if he’s that friendly with that many different people, somewhere he’s got to be lying to at least some of them, you know?” 

“Who hurt you to make you think like that?” asked Harry in wonder. 

“I was beaten as a child,” she said it so simply Harry could not tell if she was just mocking him again. “But the real question is: why are you so trusting?” 

“C-can we just stop this?” he begged. “Whether Anthony’s just really nice or secretly the next Dark Lord building his own army, it doesn’t change the fact he apparently doesn’t want me there.” It hurt to admit, yes, but… “Either way, it’s already done.” 

“Moping again, I see,” Her voice did not seem mocking, but it was still far from concerned. “Feeling like they abandoned you?” 

“I don’t care about what they did,” He was lying and they both knew it. “What’s the worse that would have happened? I wouldn’t be dueling Granger. Simple.” 

“But you want to duel her, for whatever reason,” she pointed out. “Doesn’t matter if it’s a Muggle hate thing or if you just don’t like Granger, a real friend would have helped.” 

Resisting his first instinct to defend Anthony, instead Harry merely rolled his eyes again and conceded, “Probably, but it doesn’t matter now.” A thought occurred to him and he asked, “What about you? You offered to be my second. Why is that? Don’t say it’s because we are true friends or you were bored because we both know either would be a lie.” 

“Catching on, Potter,” her voice sounded pleased. “But we’ve already had this conversation before, too. I don’t like her, simple as that.” 

“That’s it? You don’t like her?” 

“She’s annoying,” explained Turpin shortly. “Loud and never shuts up. Every class with her involves the teacher lecturing and her having to say something about it. I cured Kevin Entwhistle earlier in the year for much less.” 

Emerald eyes stared at her for a long moment in a dazed silence. “Is that really your reason?” he asked surprised. “Just because she’s annoying?” 

“Oh, and your reason is any better?” 

“Well, I, uh…” He fumbled, searching for a way to explain it. “She is annoying, yes, but there is more to it than that.” 

“Even if there was it’s not why you challenged her,” dismissed Turpin with a wave of her hand. “You think you’re better than her and you want to prove it. In public, where everyone can see.” 

“You make me sound so petty,” grumbled Harry. 

“Because you are. You think simply.” Ignore his attempt to complain, she continued, “You could have picked any time or any place for the duel, but you picked a free day and chose the Courtyard. When you beat Granger, you want people to see you do it. To know you did it.” 

“We were arguing and I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was just the first place I could think of,” started Harry. “And it needed to be a day we could get around classes.” 

“So you were thinking clearly to know you wanted to avoid class times, but still too involved in the argument to pick a secluded place?” she questioned in disbelief. 

“Not everything is planned. Some stuff just happens that way.” 

“Maybe,” she did not sound convinced. “Or maybe you are just lying to yourself again.” Without another word, she turned on her heel and started back into the castle. 

Not wanting her to go for some reason, Harry called out, “Where do you think you’re going? We were talking!” 

Lisa Turpin turned to look at him again. “It’s cold, Potter,” she said shortly as Harry noticed how pale she looked and how numb his hands felt. “Besides, you are clearly too busy lying for us to get anywhere.” As she turned and walked away, she was saying, “Now stop hiding and complaining, Potter.” 

Just like that she was gone and Harry Potter was once again left alone in the cold. 

* * *

The Great Hall was as crowded and lively as always with nearly every student of every year gathered together for dinner that evening. The echoing layers of laughter and conversation reverberated and seemed to shake the very floor beneath every one of the hall’s occupants. 

Harry could feel the vibrant buzz of activity before even reaching the double doors that lead into the Great Hall. Maybe the ground beneath him was really shaking or maybe it was his own legs. Each step he took felt heavier than the one before it and he found himself dreading each one. 

Harry wondered what about the hall made him so afraid of going inside. Lisa Turpin had accused him of moping and even the dull hunger he felt in his stomach did not seem to be enough to push him forward. Yet his legs still moved, slow as they were. Maybe he was just too stubborn? 

Either way, he made his way into the hall on shaky legs and with short breathes. The back-ground drone of conversation and clanking plates sounded in his ears with each step he took as he made his way for the Ravenclaw table. 

Each step inside the hall made his steps lighten, but he could feel the weight return as he got closer and started making out what some of those conversations were about. 

“He has been in a bad mood all week,” Michael Corner was telling Terry Boot. “No question about it.” 

“Looks like Potter has finally snapped,” laughed Stephen Cornfoot. 

“I heard from Lavender Brown in Gryffindor,” Padma Patil was telling a group of girls. “That Potter was bullying Granger on the train back from break. Apparently he made her cry.” 

“Have to admit,” said a smirking Isobel MacDougal. “I’m looking forward to watching the duel.” 

This is why he was so hesitant to come here, concluded Harry at once. As he came closer to the table, the conversations either turned into hushed whispers or shifted into openly staring at him. Unbidden, Harry turned his emerald eyes towards the section of the table where Anthony Goldstein was sitting next to Terry Boot before quickly ignoring them both and making his way for a seat as far away from them as he could. 

Thankfully, he had stalled coming here enough that the food was already lined up on the table. Refusing to meet any of the staring eye’s gaze, he gathered up his food on a plate in silence before taking a seat. 

He was able to sit peacefully for about ten seconds before he heard the shuffling beside him as someone claimed the seat next to him. 

“Looks like you’ve had an interesting evening, Potter,” came the grinning Eddie Carmichael. “Just when my Quidditch betting pool dries up, you go and give me a present.” 

There was something oddly relieving about Carmichael’s shameless greed. It almost helped Harry forget about the dozens of stares he was receiving. “Okay,” the first year replied, unsure of what else to say. 

“The choice of a Gryffindor was pretty good, too,” said Carmichael. “Ravenclaw has always tried to be the neutral house so there are no real prejudices. Betting pool is pretty even, actually.” 

“Oh, is it?” he asked woodenly. He would have preferred more support from his own house. 

“Well, even everywhere except in Gryffindor and Slytherin,” shrugged Carmichael. “Their bets favor Granger and you, respectively.” 

Harry would rather not think on why he was receiving so much support from Slytherin and instead busied himself by stabbing at a few pieces of chicken on his plate in silence. 

“Heh-heh… Just remember to make it last a while,” laughed Carmichael. “People are expecting a good show, right? Wish I could sell tickets, but--- Ah!” The older boy jumped up as he felt a sharp stinging on his shoulder. 

“Quit harassing the first year, Carmichael!” snapped Robert Hilliard, the prefect, as he stowed away his wand. “Or the next hex will hurt a lot more.” 

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled. He sent one last wink to Harry before moving up the table and away from the irate prefect. 

“Ignore that ponce, Potter,” said Hilliard. 

“Thanks, Hilliard,” replied Harry, looking up from his plate to meet the older boy’s eyes. “But you didn’t have to do that.” 

“Any excuse to hex idiots is welcome in my book,” shrugged Hilliard. Sending the first year a sharp look, he continued, “But you better not lose, Potter. Ravenclaw pride is on the line.” Almost warmed at the sentiment, Harry actually gave a half smile before nodding. 

“You shouldn’t be encouraging this, Robert,” said Penelope Clearwater as she approached. “First years shouldn’t be dueling.” 

“There’s no rule against it,” he paused then, considering, before adding, “At least not one I care to enforce. They’re only first years, after all. How bad could it get?” Turning back to Harry, he explained, “I’ll be there to make sure everything goes okay, but I better not have to explain to Professor Flitwick why a couple first years are visiting Madam Pomfrey just a few weeks before finals.” 

“No worries from me,” said Harry. 

“Good,” nodded Hilliard. “Then make sure to get some wand practice in and show that Gryffindor how we use a wand.” The prefect let out a chuckle before leaving; Penelope Clearwater following after him with a whispered “be safe” to Harry as she left.

Harry watched them go feeling a surprising rush of gratitude to Robert Hilliard for his show of support. A feeling that lasted as long as it took for— 

“Hello, Harry,” said Anthony Goldstein in greeting. “Mind if I sit?” 

The emerald eyed youth wanted to say yes, but a combination of hurt and Lisa Turpin’s revelations on the other boy’s character made him say, “No.” 

There was a brief flash of surprise on Goldstein’s face, but it was gone a second later. “I get that you're angry, Harry, but you have to understand. I was—“ 

“Trying to keep from actually picking sides,” finished Harry for him. “Because if you helped me, it might upset your other friends. Cornfoot, really? He’s a git.” 

“Not always,” defended Anthony. “He has a few good points.” 

“Then I hope you are happy spending time with him,” Harry turned back to his food as he finished, “We’re done and I have a duel to get ready for.” Anthony Goldstein moved to speak, but stopped before he could say anything. Nodding his head, not that Harry could see it, he made his way back to where he had been in silence. 

He spent the next few minutes eating his dinner in peace and as the night went on he could feel the mood around him shift and move on to different subjects. Even the stares drifted away from him and the hushed conversations turned to other – louder – topics. 

Relieved now that he was no longer the center of attention, Harry felt himself growing lighter and much more cheerful. When he finally finished his meal, he made his way for Ravenclaw Tower with a plan already forming in his mind: he had promised Hilliard he would win, after all. 

When he went to sleep that night, he rested easily. 

* * *

Day one of duel preparations started with an awkward morning. Harry shared his dormitory room with Stephen Cornfoot and Terry Boot and while the former had been a mild annoyance since early in the year, the latter… 

“Uh, g-good morning, Harry,” said Boot as they caught eyes from across their shared room together; Harry already dressed, Boot just now waking. “Sorry about, you know…” 

“It doesn’t matter now,” said Harry, trying to keep the bitterness from his tone. “Forget it. But I am expecting my magical history notes back by tonight.” 

“Sure, sure,” agreed the other boy easily. “Whatever you say.” 

Nodding shortly, Harry grabbed his things before making his way out the door. Ravenclaw’s only class for the day was a thankfully Gryffindor free Herbology lesson right after the morning feast. Briefly putting his upcoming duel with Hermione Granger from his mind, Harry actually found himself enjoying the usually tedious walk from the top of Ravenclaw Tower down to the Great Hall. Each portrait he passed was busy going about its own morning routine and the solitary walk gave him a moment to collect himself after the whirlwind of activity the day before. 

Unfortunately, that whirlwind came back to him the moment he reached the doors of the Great Hall; a whirlwind in the form of Lisa Turpin. He had not seen her since their erratic conversation the night before – not during dinner or even in the tower – and, considering the nature of most of their conversations, was not looking forward to another. 

“Morning, Turpin,” he greeted stiffly before trying to get past her and into the hall. She, however, seemed to disagree with that plan. 

Offering a thin lipped smile, Lisa Turpin lifted her hand to block his entrance. Her eyes sparkling with some sort of hidden scheme, she said, “Morning to you, too, Potter.” 

Sighing, the emerald eyed Ravenclaw asked, “Do we have to start this so early?” 

“And I was going to offer to share my morning toast,” she then mimed as though she might cry, wiping away at an imaginary tear. More seriously, she continued, “Meet me in the second floor abandoned classroom at the end of the hall after Herbology.” 

“If I asked why?” 

“I would ignore you,” was her immediate reply. “Then act being hurt and ask why you don’t trust me.” 

“Then I won’t bother,” shrugged Harry in defeat. “Can I go eat now?” 

“Certainly,” she smiled brightly, moving her arm away from the door. “Enjoy that toast.” 

“Will do,” he answered and quickly moved past her. Every conversation with her was so confusing! Stowing away his curiosity about what the clearly insane girl might want with him, Harry made his way towards Ravenclaw house’s table and the piles of food already there. 

Morning feasts were usually more subdued than their evening counter-parts and today with no exception. Sleep and the passing of a few hours seemed enough to turn the news of Harry’s upcoming duel into a minor subject and he could only hear short conversations on the matter. There also were not any more visitors coming to see him and most everyone seemed to be either avoiding him or trying to give him space, something he was conflicted on. 

Either way, the feast passed in relative peace and thirty minutes later found him marching across the small out-door field towards the green-house Professor Sprout used for her classes. The Hufflepuffs they shared the class with were already inside and Harry could see a few Ravenclaws trickling in, usually in groups of two. 

Doing the same, he made his way inside before claiming a seat as far from the teacher as possible as his previous seat next to Anthony Goldstein was no-longer viable. Taking a seat, Harry prepared for what he was sure to be a boring class; Herbology was one of his worst subjects for a reason. He just could not get excited about growing plants. 

Once all the other students had arrived— 

“Good morning class,” greeted the ever cheerful Professor Pomona Sprout like always. “I hope you’re ready for today because we will be having a review lesson. Finals are only weeks away, after all!” 

‘ _Just what I wanted,_ ’ thought Harry sarcastically, but did his house proud by taking notes anyway. 

When class was finally over a few hours later he tried to catch Lisa Turpin as she rushed passed the gathering crowd of Hufflepuffs and out of the greenhouse. By the time he managed his way through, the first year girl was already gone. 

Resigned and still a bit curious, Harry made his way for Hogwarts' second floor as instructed. Ravenclaw had the rest of the day free so many of the blue tied students could be seen gathering around the castle, but Harry payed them no mind and only a few minutes after class he found himself standing outside the abandoned classroom as instructed. 

Looking at the door, Harry considered knocking before shrugging and pushing his way inside only to be met with— 

“You’re early, Potter,” said Turpin by way of greeting him. She stood in the middle of the class, flanked on either side by rows of desks, and Harry could see her things piled in a corner behind the teacher’s desk. 

“You only said to come after class,” defended Harry, stepping forward. Glancing about the room, he could not see anything out of the ordinary. “Why did you want me to meet you here, anyway?” 

Instead of answering, the first year girl withdrew a short white wand from her robes. “I would think that would be obvious,” she spoke calmly, emerald eyes following the wand’s every movement. “If you’re going to duel Granger, I have to make sure you can actually win.” 

Surprisingly, the smile he greeted this particular challenge with was one of genuine happiness. “I’ve been practicing with Goldstein for a while now and I won most of those,” he smirked at her, dropping his things off to the side. “Think you got what it takes?” 

“Only one way to find out,” she returned his smirk. As Harry withdrew his black wand, she added, “First to make contact wins.” 

“This will be a short duel, then,” laughed Harry; dueling had always excited him ever since the Dawlish versus Macnair duel he had seen during winter break. His arched wand held firmly in hand, Harry adjusted the angle of the wand; its tip pointing towards Turpin. 

“Ready, Potter?” asked a challenging Lisa Turpin, her wand held at her side, similarly to Anthony Goldstein not even two days prior. Harry ignored the comparison between the two. 

“Ladies first,” he waved her on with his free hand. 

“How gentlemanly,” she smiled briefly, but her expression turned to stone a second later. At once, her wand shifted to face her opponent as she yelled, “ _Mucus Ad Nauseam!”_ The Curse of the Bogies shot forth from her wand in a quick flash of green. 

Side stepping the weak curse easily, leaving it to strike a desk behind him without affect, Harry returned with his own spell, calling out, “ _Tarantallegra_ …” The whispered Dancing Feet Spell roared in response, hurtling towards Turpin, but she managed to dive behind cover just in time. 

“Not too bad, Potter,” gasped a pleased sounding Turpin. 

“You, too,” he said in return. “But I was expect more than a Bogies Curse from you.” 

“Oh, this is only the beginning!” she smirked, firing her own Dancing Feet Spell back at him. 

For the next hour, the two first years traded spell for spell, occasionally scoring a hit only to reset and start again without ceremony. Harry held a clear edge over the girl, but it was close. 

Ducking his head to avoid another speeding spell, he was reminded of that fact clearly, retaliating with his own in response. After over an hour of trading spell fire, the classroom with in disarray; desks split or broken apart, some charred, and more than a few chairs were bouncing around the room thinks to the timely dodging of a Dancing Feet Spell. 

“Better than I thought you’d be,” Turpin was saying from behind a desk. “But you use the same few spells every time.” 

“I can’t really throw around Severing Charms, can I?” called Harry from behind a column. 

“Might work better than all those dancing spells,” she retorted. “There something you want to tell me?” 

“Says the Bogies girl,” he shook his head; Turpin seemed oddly fond of that one for some reason. “It’s not even that good.” 

“We will see about that…” she smirked, jumping out from behind her cover. When Harry moved to match her, she said, “Mucus Ad— _Tarantallegra!_ ” The sudden change of spell delayed him enough he could almost feel the burst of light graze past his leg. 

Growling in frustration, Harry snapped around and shouted, “ _Flipendo!_ ” Turpin’s eyes seemed to widen as she was met with the Knockback Jinx; the spell pushing her over a desk. 

The first year girl toppled over the desk, landing in an undignified lump as her robes covered her from sight. Approaching cautiously, Harry asked, “You okay?” 

Lisa Turpin stood as gracefully as she could, matching his twinkling eyes with a glare. “You must think yourself so clever,” she grumbled. “But you won’t be able to sneak that one by me again.” 

Harry laughed, truly laughed, and nodded. When the two took their positions to start again, both were smiling. When Turpin won the next match and Harry the one after that, they were both smiling. 

For the first time in a long time, Harry Potter felt a genuine feeling of lightness about him. He had a soft passion for dueling and enjoyed the thrill of the activity, but Anthony Goldstein could never really match him like Turpin seemed to. It was never a question of skill – they were both only first years, after all – but she was cunning and liked to hide her spell-work within plans and would often act unpredictably. The change gave Harry a rush, a feeling of excitement as he tried to find her next plan and over-come it. 

They spent the next few hours repeating their little game, trading spell for spell and win for loss in equal measure, until both were finally too drained to move. But even as he tried to catch fleeting breathes from escaping him, Harry never forget why they were here and for the first time… 

For the first time, Harry could honestly say he was looking forward to his duel with Hermione Granger. 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to anyone anxious for the duel, but there were some things that needed to happen first. Next chapter will be Harry versus Hermione, I promise.
> 
> As for this chapter... Lisa Turpin was the high-light in this one for me. I tired to do something different with her than I usually see in Potter stories and I hope it at least entertained. Apart from that it was mostly reactions from the school, some positive while others were negative.
> 
> Feel free to tell me what you liked, or what you did not, in a review! Always interested in hearing your thoughts.


	15. Power v. Groans

Emerald eyes opened to greet the world before narrowing as the light from the morning sun greeted him. Pushing himself up from the bed with a groan, Harry James Potter welcomed himself to the new day with a reserved smile. 

Today was the day. Three days had passed since his sudden challenge of a duel and it was finally time. Reaching for his glasses with a shaking hand, Harry jumped from his bed with the excited sort of energy only eleven year olds were capable of as he threw himself into his morning rituals. 

Only a few moments later, when Harry was dressed and freshened up, he exited the Ravenclaw dormitories and entered the common room only to be greeted by the now familiar sight of a yawning Lisa Turpin. 

The first year girl was caught mid-act, her lips going wide as she tried to cover the silent yawn behind a cupped hand. “Still a morning person, I see,” greeted Harry with a sarcastic smirk. 

“You are insufferable, Potter,” she said after finding her voice. “Your apparent good mood only makes it worse. Now let’s go.” 

Nodding, Harry and Lisa Turpin made their way down from Ravenclaw Tower towards the Great Hall for the morning feast. On the way— 

“Excited about today?” asked Harry, the boy doing his best to suppress a smile. 

“For what?” asked a glib Turpin. “I won’t be the one doing anything if you don’t fail miserably. I’m the second.” 

“True,” conceded Harry. “But you will still get to watch me beat her.” 

“I admit that might be a little fun,” said Turpin with a side-long smile. 

Her smile made Harry wonder at how fast their relationship developed. All through-out the year they had traded a handful of barbed comments, odd conversations, and the occasional study group, but he had never really spoken with her in any casual manner. Now, after having spent the last three days meeting up to practice dueling techniques and even more besides that to work on their respective class work, Harry found himself wondering at the ease with which the two talked. 

With Stephen Cornfoot he found himself always choosing his words carefully, afraid of offending the boy. With Anthony Goldstein he did much the same, but with a more clear idea of what topics to completely avoid. Lisa Turpin, however, spoke with the ease of apathy and Harry returned her tone with an unrestrained sort of attention. That is what you got, decided Harry, when you make friends with some-one you only ever shared insults with before. Hard to go to best-mates from that. 

“Keep walking, Potter,” said Turpin, returning his attention back to the present her. Apparently he had stopped at some point in the middle of his thoughts. “It’s a wonder how somebody with as empty a head as you does so well in class.” 

“If my head is empty, what does that make yours?” he asked in return. 

“Great retort,” she mocked before resuming her usual brisk pace, nearly knocking over two Hufflepuff girls as she moved past, with Harry following a few steps behind and sending an apology their way. 

The two finished the walk towards the Great Hall with their usually odd mixture of tense and companionable silence. A silence that was broken the moment they reached their destination as the hall was filled with the noise of clanking plates, the shuffling of food, and the buzz of conversation. 

Lisa Turpin, seemingly either immune or ignorant to the existence of other people, disregarded all of this in favor of a large tray of food. Claiming a seat near the end of Ravenclaw’s table, she then proceed to eat her acquired bits with the grace of a cat. Shaking his head as he came to sit beside her, Harry helped himself to a bit of meat and toast. 

As the morning feast went on, however, Harry became increasingly aware of the eyes of many first years, from all houses, looking in his direction; when he tried to meet them, they quickly turned away. “Everyone in our year knows about the duel,” reminded Lisa Turpin, noticing the attention. “No surprise they’re staring. Granger is getting the same looks.” 

Turning his emerald gaze in the direction of Gryffindor’s table, Harry noticed the cluster of activity surrounding the muggle-born Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom. The entire house of the brave seemed to chatter amongst themselves, but the only words Harry caught were “duel” and “rivalry.” 

“Ravenclaw would likely be doing the same,” commented Turpin. “But most feel guilty.” 

“For being so distant with everyone, you seem to know them all very well,” noted Harry. “Secretly yearning for more friends?” 

Scoffing, she said, “I barely have the energy to deal with you all day.” She then ignored him in favor of her still sizable pile of eggs. 

Rolling his eyes at her, Harry’s attention was diverted yet again by another voice. “Harry Potter?” asked the demure voice of Padma Patil. “Just wanted to wish you good luck this afternoon.” 

Harry paused, trying to remember a time he had actually spoken to the Indian girl, but nodded anyway. “Thanks,” he said numbly, confused. 

“Just wanted to say that,” explained Patil, her face flushing slightly. “After, you know, what happened the other day. With Anthony,” at Harry’s darkening expression, she quickly added, “Just wanted to let you know you’ve got supporters. I don’t know why you challenged her, Granger I mean, but we support you. House loyalty, right?” 

This time Harry felt his own face heating. “D-don’t mention it,” he mumbled. “And it was just a stupid impulse. Still, though, I don’t intend to lose.” He added the last bit with a sort of challenging air; one Padma Patil met with a smile. 

“That’s good,” she said. “Well, I should be going.” She gestured towards a group of Ravenclaw first years, mostly girls, who were watching them closely. “But good luck again. You, too, Lisa.” She nodded to both Harry and Lisa Turpin before rushing off towards her friends. 

“That was weird,” said Harry, confused. 

“She’s a gossip,” remarked Lisa Turpin dismissively. “And a socialite. Always being friendly.” 

“The opposite of you, then?” asked Harry rhetorically, only smirking wider at the glare she sent him in reply. He only laughed before helping himself to more bits of food. 

* * *

When the feast came to an end less than an hour later, Harry was anxious to make his way towards the courtyard for the scheduled duel. Lisa Turpin, however, disagreed. 

“The duel is not until this afternoon,” she reminded him. “You would just be waiting.” 

“So, what?” asked Harry with a sigh. “We practice more?” 

“Waste of energy right before a duel,” she shrugged. “I suggest a walk.” 

Harry did not seem convinced, but followed her as she led him on a walk around the castle; an action the youngest Potter could not recall having done since the first couple weeks of school. Despite the trembling excitement he could still feel in his hands, Harry managed to quell the nervousness he felt in his chest and focus on the sight of the castle at morning. 

The winter season had faded weeks ago and the chilled air was replaced by a warm breeze Harry could feel brushing his face. Releasing a deep sigh at the feeling, Harry smiled as he felt the trembling subside. 

“Feeling better?” asked Lisa Turpin. 

Looking towards her, Harry replied, “Fine, but why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You were nervous,” she sent a pointed look at his hands. “I saw your hands shaking while you were eating. Afraid?” 

“Not in the least,” he answered confidently. “But I do want to win. At this point, I kind-of have to or I’ll never hear the end of it from you.” 

“Exactly,” she smirked. “So you better not lose. Now, let’s go. It’s about time.” 

As she turned back towards the castle’s interior, Harry said, “Thank you. For giving me this moment.” 

Lisa Turpin rolled her eyes at him, but nodded all the same before gesturing for him to move. Harry following a step behind her, Lisa leading the two on their way up the ever-shifting stairs of Hogwarts and towards the courtyard. 

Even before stepping off the stairs, however, they were greeted by a crowd of students; mostly first years, but Harry could see a few second, third, and other years spread about, too. 

“Eddie Carmichael is responsible for the older years,” noted Lisa Turpin. The student in question stood at the entrance to the courtyard talking with a group of third years while exchanging bits of coin. 

“As long as Granger is here, I don’t care,” said Harry simply. 

“Because there will be more to watch your victory, no doubt,” she teased in reply. Harry smirked, but said nothing else on the matter. 

Pushing their way through the crowd of gathered students and into the courtyard, Harry ignored the wink Carmichael sent him and stepped out into the sight of his duel. Even with a cursory glance around the area, it seemed almost every Ravenclaw and Gryffindor in their year was spread about. 

The first thing to catch Harry’s attention, though, was Terry Boot. The Ravenclaw boy stood near the middle of the crowd and was holding a small banner in one hand while waving it about. Inscribed on that banner, in the colors of blue and bronze, were the words “Potter Power.” 

Harry only had time to blink for a moment before the words shifted to gold and red, then saying “Granger Groans.” Supporters of Hermione Granger, apparently feeling challenged by this, were waving about simple Gryffindor Quidditch team flags in response while sending Boot heavy glares. 

“What a lovely show of house loyalty,” remarked Turpin on the spectacle, scoffing as she walked past. Harry, though, was touched and sent the excited looking Boot a wave and a smile, which he returned in force with his free hand. 

“Hope you intend to give us a show,” came the surprising voice of Blaise Zabini. Turning to see the boy in question, Harry met the black eyes of the first year Slytherin. He had never spoken with Zabini before, but the dark skinned boy met his gaze with a hint of a smile. “Blaise Zabini,” he introduced, offering his hand. 

Shaking it hesitantly, he replied, “Harry Potter.” 

“You’ve split the house on this one,” he gestured around towards the crowd of students. “You and Granger dueling; it’s not light stuff. Especially considering your family history, _Potter_.” There was a challenging edge to Zabini’s tone; one that implied all sorts of things Harry did not like the sound of it. 

“This has nothing to do with my family,” insisted Harry Potter shortly. “And is just between me and Granger.” 

“If you say so,” smiled Zabini, sending him a wink of all things, before adding, “Either way, you have more Slytherin supporters than not. Even Draco has been looking forward to today.” 

Draco Malfoy; another name he knew only in passing. “Thanks for your support,” said Harry simply. 

“Just make sure it’s not misplaced,” shrugged the Slytherin. “Carmichael convinced me you were worth the time.” With that he left, leaving Harry shaking his head in confusion. 

Deciding to forget about the strange encounter, Harry Potter pushed his way through the rest of the crowd until he had broken through into the center. Lisa Turpin was already there, of course, and Harry could see Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom engaged in hushed conversation across from them. 

Robert Hilliard surprised him, however. The Ravenclaw prefect stood tall amidst the assembly of younger years, but his slouched posture did well to hide that. Upon seeing Harry, though, Hilliard smiled viciously. “About time you showed up,” he grumbled. “I was starting to think you had wussed out.” 

“I’m still early,” defended Harry, coming to stand at Turpin's side. “Duel wasn’t set until afternoon.” 

“Yeah,” conceded Hilliard. “But if I had to handle this crowd for much longer I might have started hexing. I did agree to referee this duel, didn’t I? Good thing I did, look at this crowd!” 

“It is big,” nodded Harry, turning back to see the “Potter Power” banner still waving above the heads of the crowd. 

“I heard they got some upper years to enchant the thing for them,” explained Hilliard regarding the banner. “Apparently, Boot was insistent. You got good friends, kid.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” answered Harry, wondering at the conflicted feelings he felt about that. 

“Alright, enough of this heartsy stuff,” shrugged Hilliard. Turning towards Granger, he shouted, “You ready, kid!?” 

Hermione Granger seemed to jump a bit at suddenly being addressed by the older prefect, but nodded her bushy head in response. “R-ready!” she stuttered nervously, turning pink as every eye of the crowd turned to her at once. 

“You ready, Potter!?” his voice a little louder than necessary, but Hilliard’s eyes bored into Harry’s with unspoken support. 

“Ready!” said Harry confidently, relishing how he sounded braver than Granger had. 

“Then let’s get started!” he shouted over the crowd, sending everyone into hushed silence. “Duelists, take your position! And by Merlin’s hairy legs, make room!” The prefect waved the assembled crowd away from the center of courtyard and Harry and Granger reached their respective positions across from the other. 

Hermione Granger, despite the flush still painting most of her exposed skin, seemed to still have a bit of steely confidence as she withdrew a decently sized brown wand from her robes. Giving a few experimental flicks of her wrist, she busied herself by muttering what was no doubt some spell under her breathe in practice. 

Across from her, Harry Potter removed his Blackthorn and Ash wand with ease. Turning the crooked black wand around with his fingers before extending it towards the ground, he smiled at the familiar weight and position of it on his fingers while his mind flashed back to all his duels with Lisa and Anthony. 

“We’re going to keep this simple,” said Hilliard as the crowd was finally moved. “If it result in a serious injury, don’t use it! But since you’re first years, no biggy on that one.” He paused then, seemingly searching for a thought, then added, “Oh! Also, no cursing the audience on purpose. If they’re too stupid to move, though, shame for them. Apart from that, this should be a clean and harmless duel. That work for you two?” 

“Sure,” answered Harry, with Granger doing the same a second later. 

“Good,” nodded Hilliard, meeting both their eyes once to be sure. Moving to the side, he added, “Now: bow!” Harry and Granger held their wands at eye level and offered each other a shallow bow. 

“Then on the count of three, begin!” 

“One!” Granger steeled herself, while Harry released a calming sigh. 

“Two!” Both first years gripped their wands tightly. 

“Three! _Begin!_ ” 

Without even waiting a second, Harry snapped his wand up and shouted, “ _Tarantellegra!_ ” Granger, it seemed, was already moving as the Dancing Feet Spell sailed past her and into the quickly splitting crowd behind her. 

Pulling away from him, the muggle-born girl returned with and soft spoken, “ _Rictusempra…_ ” Even with the silver burst of energy from the Tickling Charm hurdling towards him, Harry easily side-stepped it. 

Flicking his wand forward from his side, he returned with: “ _Flipendo!_ ” The blue Knockback Jinx met the moving Granger just in-time to slam her in the chest, pushing her back and off her feet. The crowd around him burst into an even mix of “ohs” and “ahs” as a result. 

Smirking at his first-strike, but remembering real duels last for more than a single spell, Harry followed up with a whispered, “ _Tarantellegra_...” Before the spell could reach her, however, the prone Gryffindor disappeared into a cloud of thick black smoke that obscured her from vision. 

Stepping back in surprise, Harry readied his wand for a counter-attack. After a few tense seconds, with the cloud of smoke remaining in place and no attack forth-coming, Harry narrowed his emerald eyes before quickly firing off: “Flipendo! _Flipendo!_ ” Within the smoke cloud, he could hear his spell slamming roughly into the ground, but Granger was still obscured from sight. 

‘ _What spell did she use?_ ’ raced the Ravenclaw’s mind. Something that could conceal her—Ah! “The Smokescreen Spell won’t stop me for long!” he called out to her. ‘ _I don’t know the counter to it, but a light should work._ ’ Pointing his wand at the smoke, he began, “Lumo—“ 

Before he could finish the incantation for the Wand-Lighting Spell, though, the black cloud surged forward amidst a call of “ _Fumos!_ ” from within. Shielding his eyes from the oncoming rush of smoke, Harry’s world went dark as it surrounded him; cutting off his vision of not only Granger, but everything else. 

Trapped now in the dark cloud and ignorant of its counter-spell, Harry lifted his wand and said, “ _Lumos…_ ” From the tip of his wand, a bright light formed giving him some visibility around him. Immediately from his side he caught a brief glimpse of movement and barely had time to dodge the Tickling Charm that followed. 

Pointing his wand in the direction of the spell, Harry tried to catch sight of the concealed muggle-born. From behind, however, he heard “ _Nox!_ ” a second before his world went dark again as the light from his wand faded. 

Predicting what was to follow, Harry dived to the side and struck the ground at the same time the next Tickling Charm crashed into where he had just been standing. Quickly scrambling to his feet, Harry thrust his wand in that same direction, shouting “ _Tarantellegra!_ ” but the green burst of light disappeared inside the black smoke. 

Wishing desperately he knew a wind spell, Harry fired off a series of spells into the darkness: Tarantellegra! Flipendo! But each disappeared into the smoke just as easily and no sound followed. 

“This is just going to delay me!” yelled Harry. “Soon I will—“ 

“— _ad Nauseam!_ ” Harry just barely heard the incantation for the Curse of the Bogies, but could not tell where it was coming from. Blinded by smoke, he shifted to the side only to step into the green spell. 

“ _Achoo!_ ” sneezed Harry as snot began pouring from his nose. Sucking it back up his nose with a snort, he could feel his congested throat constrict and how clogged up his head felt. ‘ _She got me with that spell!_ ’ raged Harry, his eyes darting around the black cloud angrily. ‘ _All because I wasn’t listening for her next spell._ ’ 

Focusing all of his attention on sound, Harry listened intently. After less than a second, he heard the beginning of her next spell: “Rictu—“ 

Not wasting time, Harry rushed towards the noise, thrusting his wand forward as he shouted, “ _Verdimillious!_ ” Green sparks of light shot from his wand and into Granger’s face and the Gryffindor jumped back with either a screech of pain or surprise. 

Pulling back immediately, Harry aimed his wand at his nose before saying, “ _Tergeo!_ ” Using the Siphoning Spell to relieve himself of the Bogies Curse, he then looked back towards where Granger had been… only to see and hear nothing. 

‘ _She recovered quickly,_ ’ noted Harry, his ears straining for her next spell. ‘ _Any second now…_ ’ 

Then—“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ” 

Briefly surprised by her use of the Body-Bind Curse, Harry jumped to the side before rushing her again. His wand leading the charge, Harry said, “ _Locomotor Mortis!_ ” He had spent weeks practicing that spell, determined not to let himself be beaten by any first year (even Draco Malfoy) and it payed off as he heard the loud squeak Granger gave, followed by the thud that followed, as her legs were bound and she fell. 

Jumping back and allowing himself a short smile of victory, Harry then turned around and aimed his wand in the opposite direction of Granger, directed at the ground. Yelling loudly in warning, he shouted, “ _Incendio!_ ” The short burst of fire shot from his wand, crashed into the ground and seemed to splash to the side. 

More importantly, however, it also tore through the cloud of smoke and seemed to eat away at the air that fed it. “ _Incendio!_ ” The next burst ate away at what remained, returning light to Harry’s world as the smokescreen faded. 

Smiling happily at the sun, Harry turned around in time to see Granger applying the counter-spell to his Leg-Locker Curse. Raising his wand, Harry aimed it at her and said, “Surrender, Granger! It’s over.” 

Pushing herself from the ground, Hermione Granger met his haughty gaze with stern defiance. Harry scanned her face, looking for surrender, and found only the burnt streaks in her bushy hair, the torn lines across her robes, and the fierce look in her eyes she was sending him. Standing steadily before him, the muggle-born gripped her wand tightly. 

“This is a duel, right?” she asked needlessly. “That means it only ends when one of us can’t continue. Now,” she smirked, surprising him. “I will accept _your_ surrender.” 

His mind flashing back to the looks of respect Macnair and Dawlish had sent one another, Harry nodded happily. “My thoughts exactly!” 

At once, both first year’s wands jabbed forward. 

Harry Potter shouted, “ _Flipendo!_ ” 

Hermione Granger called out, “ _Rictusempra!_ ” 

The results were simultaneous; Granger was knocked back as Harry burst into laughter. Not in triumph, but because the Tickling Charm struck him, forcing him to his knees. Suppressing the laughter and itching feeling he felt all over his skin making him want to laugh more, Harry lifted his wand, intent on sending another spell towards the still downed muggle-born, but was stopped by a voice:

“What is going on here!?” shouted the horrified voice of Pomona Sprout. The Head of Hufflepuff House surveyed the duel and surroundings around her in a short glance before repeating her question, “What is going on here!?” 

Harry, his eyes still locked on the struggling to stand Granger, sighed before putting his wand away. The duel was over… 

Turning to explain things to the professor, Harry stopped shortly the moment his eyes left the muggle-born. The once thick and vibrant crowd that had surrounded them at the start of the duel was a divided mess. Clusters of students spread about; some with runny noses and others with constantly dancing feet. Most worrying, however, were the flames burning away on one of the courtyard trees. 

Robert Hilliard was busy casting Freezing Charms on the burning tree while Neville Longbottom and others were casting counter-spells on all the downed students. Lisa Turpin leaned against a nearby wall watching the ensuing chaos with a half-smile. 

Feeling his face heat in embarrassment and rising guilt, Harry said to the increasing startled Professor Sprout, “We had a duel,” he gestured to a now heavily breathing, but still standing Hermione Granger. “But things got a little out of control.” 

Pomona Sprout seemed at a loss for words, her lips moving but no sound forth-coming. When at last she could speak, the older professor merely said, “Detention… and hospital.” 

Harry Potter nodded in resignation even as Hermione Granger went white at the word “detention.”

* * *

Madam Poppy Pomfrey fixed him with the sort of look usually expected from a disappointed parent. From his position on the hospital bed, Harry Potter did his best to ignore that look and instead marveled at the interesting details of his solid white bed sheets. 

“You, Mr. Potter,” she was saying. “Are more like your father each time I see you. Dueling now, Harry?” 

Releasing a sigh, Harry nodded sadly. “I know, Madam Pomfrey,” he said, resigned. “I know.” 

“You’re lucky you haven’t suffered any serious injury,” she said, pointing the tip of her wand at his forehead and tracing it down his nose. “With the exception of a fever, you seem unharmed physically.” 

“That’s good,” mumbled Harry, knowing what would follow. 

“Ms. Granger, however, is not so fortunate,” she withdrew her wand, sending a look towards the bed across from Harry’s own. “Several bruises and some minor burns. What has me worried the most, however, is that you both seem to have exhausted yourselves. First years are usually discouraged from dueling as your young age makes it dangerous to use too many spells over such a short period of time.” 

“Is that why I feel so tired?” he asked, resisting the urge to yawn. 

“Most likely,” she nodded. “To be safe, I intend to keep you here for at least a day, but it seems you also fared better than Ms. Granger in that respect, too.” 

“Guess that means I won, right?” Harry tried to joke. 

Madam Pomfrey disagreed, saying, “There are more important things to think about than winning, Mr. Potter. I have had to treat a number of your erstwhile spectators already and I am sure our grounds keeper will have a few words to say about how you damaged that poor tree.” 

“Right,” quieted Harry, having forgot about the tree. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’m not the one you need to convince of that,” remarked Madam Pomfrey. 

“I think that will be enough of that,” interrupted a voice that made Harry’s blood run cold. Sweeping into the Hogwarts infirmary seemingly without warning, the drawling voice of Severus Snape reached him easily. “Mr. Potter has a great deal to answer for with this stunt.” 

Madam Pomfrey paused, seeming hesitant to leave her patient with the notoriously surly potions master, but nodded eventually. Ordering Harry to strict bed rest, she sent the professor a short smile before leaving the two alone and leaving Harry to his end. 

The part of him that was the son of Lily Potter wanted nothing more than to reach out to the potions professor and beg for forgiveness, but the part that was the son of James Potter knew how hopeless that would be. Harry would have liked nothing more than to disappear into the floor, but met the black eyes of Professor Snape with what little strength he had left. 

Vibrant emerald met cold black for a brief moment and, surprisingly, it was Snape who broke contact first when he sent his cold gaze over the room. His eyes caught on each student resting in bed, each being treated for exposure to stray dueling spells, before returning Harry's gaze in force. 

“It seems,” he said with a voice like poisoned honey. “That there is more of you like your father that I had realized.” The single worst thing he could have said, Harry knew. The words were spoken plainly, but still lacked the venom the man usually used to associate with James Potter. “What have you to say?” 

“I’m sorry, sir,” began Harry shakily. “I didn’t know the tree or the other students were there. Granger had used a smoke-screen and--“ 

“Your carelessness and lack of fore-sight,” snapped Snape. “Are not an explanation. They are an excuse. Why did this happen?” 

Swallowing the building ball of saliva in his throat, Harry gulped before answering, “Dueling, sir. I had challenged Hermione Granger to a duel and Robert Hilliard agreed to referee.” 

“Yes, the Ravenclaw prefect gave a rather simple report on the matter,” drawled Professor Snape, uninterested. “I expect he, too, will face punishment.” 

“ _Too_ , sir?” asked Harry, already knowing what that meant. 

Snape confirmed as much, saying, “Yes, Mr. Potter, _too_. You and Ms. Granger will both be receiving detention for your actions in the coming week.” 

“For what it’s worth, sir,” said Harry. “I am sorry.” 

“You will be, Mr. Potter,” agreed Snape with a sinister sort of smile. “Madam Pomfrey informed me you will be confined to bed for at least a day. You will have that time to prepare another essay on your foolishness; one I expect delivered to me when you are released.” 

“Of course, sir,” said Harry. “I’ll work on it right away.” 

“See that you do,” nodded Professor Snape. “You should also be aware your actions have lost considerable points for both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor houses. Consider that to be the first of many punishments to come.” 

Without another word, the potions professor left the room as silently as he came. Harry slumped into his bed, exhausted from the day and not yet ready to face tomorrow, before falling to sleep instantly. 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter structure on this one bothers me a little, but it does the job. The duel, I feel, works pretty well to let both Harry and Hermione show off a bit, but still be believable for a couple first years. Make sure to tell me what you thought of it. Did it meet your expectation or not?


	16. Sigh of Burden

Over half way into May, as final exams and the end of the school year drew closer, Hogwarts castle was finally freed of the occasional gusts of chilly wind that would greet you every morning when you stepped outside. Instead, the bright morning sun would meet you each day and heavy winter robes finally gave way to lighter summer ones. The only worry left to anyone was exams. 

Harry Potter sighed at the thought; he had been doing that a lot the last few hours. Lisa Turpin, who sat beside his Hogwarts infirmary bed, made sure to note each one: “That makes four,” she said blandly. “Getting restless?” 

“Of course I am,” grumbled Harry, sending longing looks out the nearest window. “Madam Pomfrey said I would be free to leave this afternoon. Why not now?” 

“No idea,” she shrugged in response. “But it can’t be that bad. You’ve only been here one night.” 

“No,” sighed Harry again. “ _We_ have been here one night.” He sent an emerald glance towards the only other occupied bed and the Gryffindor girl sitting on there while reading. 

Rolling her eyes, Turpin said, “Yes, I’m sure it was terrible.” 

“Longbottom came to visit Granger last night,” he said, ignoring her. “Kept sending me all sorts of looks. He left a few books and didn’t say a word before he left. She’s been reading since then.” 

“So she reads,” noted Turpin. “Good for her. Exams are fast approaching.” 

“Exactly why I don’t want to be here,” nodded Harry. “None of my books are here.” 

“I would have brought your things—“ 

“But you don’t care,” interrupted Harry before sighing again. 

“That makes seven,” glared Turpin. “And that was rude. I do care. I thought we were friends?” 

“So you keep telling me…” he paused then. There was something he wanted to ask, but could not bring himself to. Something he wanted to know… Doing his best to seem uninterested, he asked, “How has everyone reacted?” 

“Reacted?” repeated Turpin, her eyes suddenly gleaming. 

“To the duel, I mean,” he explained while willing himself not to blush. 

“Wanting to know if everyone was impressed by your great skill, Potter?” she teased, forcing the blush to appear. “Not to worry. You have impressed the little birds of Ravenclaw. Boot was leading the charge at the evening feast, praising your very name. It was quite poetic.” 

“Now I know you are just trying to annoy me,” said Harry, rolling his eyes at her. 

“Maybe a little,” she smirked. “But Ravenclaw is noticeably louder now and Gryffindor noticeably quieter. Some passing praise for Granger, too, of course, but despite the lack of a conclusive end you are considered the true victor.” 

Harry actually smiled at that news, feeling relieved for some reason. “That’s good to hear,” he said happily. “Surprised everyone’s not upset at the loss of house points.” 

“Yes, both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw did lose sixty house points each,” remarked Turpin. “But it was Snape who took the points so most think it was just his way of ensure Slytherin wins the House Cup this year, too.” 

“Didn’t know you cared so much about the House Cup,” teased Harry. “Fond of your house now, Turpin?” 

Lisa Turpin glared at him, but there was a light dusting of red on her cheeks. “Not in the slightest,” she denied. “But Padma Patil does go on about it. She’s a gossip.” 

“Whatever you say,” smiled Harry in victory. 

The girl scoffed at him in reply, crossing her arms in response before saying, “I’m just surprised they didn’t notice how unoriginal you were with your spells.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked defiantly. 

“Take away your favorite Severing and the Fire Making Charms and you resort to dancing spells,” she mocked. “You unorthodox use of the latter being why you lost those points in the first place. Very disappointed in you, Potter.” 

Refusing to take the bait she was clearly showing him, Harry sat back knowingly and simply smirked. Turpin’s glare in response almost stung. 

“You seem to be feeling better,” came a new voice, breaking the tense staring contest. Harry looked up to see Madam Pomfrey approaching him with a smile. 

“Good morning, madam,” greeted Harry. “Can I leave now?” 

“As anxious as ever, I see,” she smiled down at him. “If you find yourself so uncomfortable here, Mr. Potter, you would do well to try and avoid it in the future.” Turning to look at the girl beside him, she added, “Oh, my apologies. I don’t think I’ve had you under my care before; although with Harry as your friend I expect that will change. I’m the castle healer, Madam Pomfrey.” 

“Lisa Turpin,” she nodded stiffly, but Harry noticed the embarrassed sort of blush on her face. “And no, madam. I’m not as stupid.” 

Madam Pomfrey actually giggled at that before turning back to meet Harry’s eyes. She then withdrew her wand and waved it about the staring young boy, before announcing, “You seem to have recovered from your fatigue rather quickly. Surprising, considering the types of spells I heard you used.” 

“I’ve practiced with them loads,” explained Harry. “I was a little tired, but noting to serious.” 

“Prolonged dueling can be a very tiring endeavor, Mr. Potter,” warned Madam Pomfrey. “Especially for one so young. Your quick recovery should not encourage this sort of behavior to continue. At least not until you’re older.” 

“I know, madam,” nodded Harry. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good,” she beamed at him happily. “Then you are free to go, but try and be careful.” 

“Will do,” said Harry before jumping out his bed. Standing proudly on his own legs again, his mood was dampened when he saw Hermione Granger still with her nose buried in her book. Wondering, he asked, “Madam, what about Granger? Shouldn’t she be leaving, too?” 

“Worried for your friend?” she asked, completely missing the cringe that crossed the young boy’s face. “Ms. Granger is still recovering. She exhausted herself more than you, it seems, and you were not so gentle with your wand work, now were you?” 

Harry had the sense to look abashed, but had to force down the smile that came. “Sorry, madam.” 

“Just a harmless bit of fun,” she dismissed. “Not to worry, Ms. Granger will be free by evening classes.” 

“Right, thank you, madam,” he said, watching quietly as the castle healer retreated. Turning to the younger girl beside him, he asked, “What is our evening class, anyway?” 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Turpin simply. At Harry’s look, she added, “Quirrell is apparently feeling better.” She sounded less than pleased, but she was never really fond of Quirrell so that was no surprise. 

“Better and better news,” said Harry cheerfully. Turpin rolled her eyes again, but did not argue as the two left the infirmary. 

* * *

Harry Potter’s return to Ravenclaw Tower was treated as the return of a conquering hero, or at least that is how Terry Boot decided to consider it. 

“Three cheers for the victor!” shouted Boot the moment Harry stepped inside. “Potter Power! Potter Power!” No one joined the energetic first year, but Michael Corner was smiling good naturally while a few others clapped. 

Harry was rooted to the spot, his face glowing red as he stood awkwardly amidst the growing sea of eyes investigating the cheering. Lisa Turpin had already stepped to the side, but Harry could still hear her suppressed laughter. 

“T-that’s enough, Terry,” said Harry stiffly. 

“Potter Power!” finished Boot regardless. Grinning widely, he said, “Welcome back, Harry! That was an amazing duel!” 

“It really wasn’t that impressive,” denied Harry, his eyes shifting about the room to the dozens of eyes on him. 

“Wasn’t that impressive?” repeated Boot in disbelief. “It was amazing! You were winning the entire time! And all those spells you used! Some of them were second year spells, right? I knew you were advanced, but that far already?” 

“I study a lot,” muttered Harry. “And read a lot.” 

“Well it was still amazing! Hey, do you think you could teach me the--Hey!” Boot was stopped as Corner pushed him to the side. 

“I think he has been through enough without having to teach you, too,” said Corner, sending Harry a brief smile as he did so. “Maybe you should focus more on your own class work before you start trying to learn second year spells.” 

Boot seemed to consider that for a moment before deflating. “You’re right, sadly,” he decided. “But potions will be the death of me, honest.” 

“Sure it will,” Corner rolled his eyes. To Harry, he said, “Glad to have you back, Potter, and it was a great duel.” 

“Thanks, Corner,” smiled Harry. “It was—“ 

“Harry!” interrupted the giddy voice of Eddie Carmichael. “How are ya, mate!?” The older boy seemed elated and his skin seemed to glow with a sort of energy Harry could not remember seeing on him before. 

“I’m fine,” said the Potter child. “You seem happy.” 

“How could I not be?” he asked before giggling. “The betting racket I had going only covered who would win the duel. Since the duel was called early, nobody actually won. That means I got to keep all the pay-out!” 

Wondering briefly if that was even how that sort of thing worked, Harry simply shrugged and said, “Happy for you.” 

“No trouble there. I’m happy for me, too.” His smiled seemed to light up the room it was so bright. “If you ever challenge anyone else to a duel, you let me know!” 

“I think that is quite enough, Mr. Carmichael,” rebuked Penelope Clearwater as she approached. “I’ve already had to talk to a number of your disgruntled ‘clients' about your earnings.“ 

“It’s all in good fun, Penny!” laughed Carmichael nervously, taking a few steps back from the girl. He sent Harry a quick look, saying, “Remember what I said, Potter!” before quickly turning heel and making his way for the common room exit. 

Penelope Clearwater watched him go with a sigh and a shake of the head. “That boy is just trouble,” she muttered. Turning to Harry next, she said more loudly, “Glad to see you are feeling better, Harry. Not too drained, I hope?” 

“No, I’m fine. Madam Pomfrey said everything was fine,” he answered back before pausing. 

Clearwater seemed to notice as her gaze turned concerned before asking, “Is everything alright, Harry?” 

“With me, yes, but what about Hilliard?” asked Harry. “Professor Snape told me he was getting in trouble, too.” 

Clearwater smiled brightly down at him, saying, “That so nice of you to worry about Robert, but he’s fine. Professor Flitwick only gave him some writing assignment to do. A token punishment, if even that. From everything I’ve heard, our Head of House is nothing but proud of the duel. He was a former duelist, you know?” 

“I think I heard something about it before,” sighed Harry, feeling relieved that the older prefect was fine. “But I’m glad the professor was so easy on him.” 

“Robert got lucky,” agreed Clearwater. “If Professor Snape had his way, he might have lost his prefect position. Robert would never tell you this, but he’s secretly proud of his position. Not that he shows it, either.” The two shared a laugh before she continued, “Just try to keep things quiet now, Harry? Please? Exams will be here soon and you need to focus on your studies.” 

“No complaints there,” he said truthfully. 

“Good,” she nodded, satisfied with his answer. “Now you might want to meet with everyone else. You’re our celebrity first year, after all. Even if you did destroy my favorite tree.” 

Penelope Clearwater left a blushing Harry to the mercy of a curious crowd, laughing as she went. Harry fought to suppress that blush, but watched her go with a fond smile before letting the crowd take him. 

For the next couple hours, Harry Potter was confronted by almost every male Ravenclaw first year and nearly half of the girls, too. Each asking where or how he learned each spell, how he overcame Granger’s Smokescreen Spell, and if he could help tutor them. 

By the time everyone started to get ready for their evening class, Harry had truly been drained of any information he had left to share. All except for one: 

“Why did you challenge her?” asked Anthony Goldstein amidst the crowd. 

“Why else?” Harry had asked back. “To see if I could win.” 

That had convinced most everyone else as even the gossip Padma Patil nodded contently at his answer, but Anthony had narrowed his eyes before joining Stephen Cornfoot in the corner. 

All in all, Harry thought he rather liked the attention he received. Today was going to be great. 

* * *

Today was going to be terrible. 

Professor Quirinus Quirrell had taken almost the entire week off for no stated reason. While many had seemed to believe he was trying to recover from some sort of illness, the frighteningly pale man that greeted them was far from recovered. 

From his seat towards the center of class next to Lisa Turpin, the emerald eyed Potter traced the tightly stretched skin of Quirrell face as it hung to edges of his cheek bones. His naturally paled skin seemed almost bleached white now, with splotches of faded brown spread throughout. The professor’s usual bright and vibrant purple robes now only served to highlight how sickly the man truly seemed. 

Worst of all, however, was how thin he appeared. The Defense professor moved in a slow gait across the room and collapsed into the chair by the teacher’s desk roughly, but as he did Harry could tell how small his arms now were. 

“G-g-good evening, c-class,” he croaked out with his typical stutter, but Harry could hear how his voice seemed strained to even speak. “P-please open your texts to p-page forty-nine for review.” Thus said, he immediately collapsed his head onto the desk and if not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, Harry might have thought he had died. 

“Is—Is he alright, do you think?” asked Harry nervously. “Should we call for Madam Pomfrey?” 

“He’s a professor,” shrugged Lisa Turpin in reply. “I would think he would have done that on his own if he were that ill.” 

Their fellow Ravenclaws seemed to also be torn on what to do, but this was not the first class they would be having with a passed out Professor Quirrell present. The Slytherins they shared the class with seemed even less interested as Gregory Goyle was already asleep at his desk and Vincent Crabbe was not far behind. 

Forcing himself to look away from the clearly ailing professor, Harry me the light brown eyes of Turpin before saying, “I already know Defense well enough, maybe we could study something else instead with the free time?” 

Turpin, who already had her Charms book half-way out of her bag, seemed to agree as she opened the book silently. Harry rolled his eyes before taking out his own copy of the book. 

Professor Quirrell seemed not to care, either for the sleeping Goyle or the studying of Harry and Lisa, and continued to sit collapsed against the table with a sound. Harry sent the former Ravenclaw man the occasional worried look, but continued his work without pause. 

Their impromptu to study session came to an end shortly after when class was finally called. Quirrell had not moved since earlier, but his class was already lined up and leaving without a look back. 

Turpin packed away her thing evenly, but was grumbling as she did, “That was a pointless class.” 

Harry Potter nodded, but sent another worried look towards the motionless Quirrell. “Maybe we should call for Madam Pomfrey anyway?” he suggested again. “He looks really bad now. Worse than usual.” 

“You do as you like,” said Turpin dismissively. “I’ll be on my way back to the Tower.” Harry watched her quietly leave, but did nothing to stop her. 

Sighing – he had been doing that a lot lately – Harry decided it was best to check on the professor before leaving. Approaching cautiously, he half expected the man to suddenly rise up as he had done before, but Quirrell remained motionless on the desk. 

“Professor,” called out Harry. “Are you feeling well, professor?” 

The man stirred, but did not rise at once. Harry could see his pale blue eyes flutter open briefly, before he slowly pushed himself off the table. Looking around the room languidly, a light seemed to reach his eyes when he met emerald eyes looking down on him in concern. “Harry,” he breathed in what appeared to be relief. “Is class already over?” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Harry. “It just ended.” 

“Ah!” the man opened his mouth in what seemed to be a yawn, but looked more like some-one was trying to peel away the skin from his face. “I still seem to be too weak.” 

“Are you feeling alright, sir?” asked Harry. “You seem worse than normal today.” 

“I’ve always been rather frail,” admitted the older man, eyeing the tight skin of his palm and tracing the bones of his fingers with the opposite hand. “But I doubt that’s all you are here for, Mr. Potter. Still reading the book?” 

Rookwood’s book, of course. “Absolutely, sir,” answered Harry with a smile. “I haven’t had much time to read it lately, but I try to whenever I have a moment.” 

“Good, good,” he nodded distractedly. After a moment, he asked, “Is there anything else you needed?” 

That made Harry paused, considering for a moment if he should say this now or wait, but eventually nodded his head in affirmation. “I was wondering,” he began hesitantly. “What you knew about the Philosopher’s Stone.” 

It was only for a brief second, but Harry thought he might have seen the professor’s eyes flash red. “T-that stone?” he asked in surprise. “Why ever would you bring that up?” 

“At the start of the year Professor Dumbledore mentioned the third floor corridor; said to avoid it under pain of death,” explained Harry calmly. “I did, but I recently discovered the warning was to protect the stone.” 

There was a calculating look about the thin looking man, like he was weighing the merits of one decision or another. When he finally spoke, it was a low whisper, “You seem well informed, Mr. Potter, but the Head-master’s warning remains valid.” 

“I know, sir,” said Harry Potter. “But I’m also pretty sure the…” he paused, trying to find the word and not allowing his voice to break. “Troll incident earlier in the year is related.” 

“A tragic and almost costly failure on this school’s part,” sighed Quirrel in seeming defeat. “How you could ever be placed in such a position is—“ 

“I’m not worried about that, sir,” he hurried to assure. “I’m worried someone might be trying to steal it.” 

Nodding his turban in thought, Quirrell said, “If you know about the stone, you either know or can guess there are protections on it.” 

“I do, but I am still concerned. If the troll is related…” 

“You have nothing to fear like a repeat of that night,” said Quirrell reassuringly. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry honestly. “But I just wanted to let you know there might be a connection.” 

“We – those of us chosen by the Head-master to protect the stone – already suspected as much,” nodded Quirrell, “But I can assure you the stone is quite safe.” 

“I thought as much,” smiled Harry lightly. “But I’m glad to hear you are one of the people guarding it.” Quirrell seemed to lift an eyebrow in question, but said nothing in response. “I just wanted to make sure you knew, sir. I’ll leave you be…” As he turned to leave, he added, “And I hope you feel better soon.” 

“Thank you, Harry,” said Quirrell, offering the retreating boy a thin lipped smile. “More than you know.” 

* * *

Harry Potter returned to the Ravenclaw dormitory feeling better than he had in months. He had beat Hermione Granger, cemented his friendships in his house, learned advanced second year spells, and finally settled the “Is Quirrell trying to steal the stone?” question for good. The only thing left to do was finish the end of the year examinations and he could say he had a great first year at Hogwarts. 

“Okay, everyone!” he announced to the small assembly of fellow first years before him. “How about we start forming those study groups! Finals are only a couple weeks away!” 

Terry Boot seemed less than excited, but Michael Corner and Lisa Turpin nodded their consent all the same. “I’ve been having trouble with my charms work,” said Corner. 

“Everything for me, but especially potions,” mumbled Boot. 

“Transfiguration is my worst subject,” noted Harry. “But you can use my potions notes.” 

“Weird, that’s one of my best!” laughed Padma Patil as she approached. “Mind if I join your group? I’ll trade you my notes for your Defense notes.” 

“Deal,” said Harry before sliding over on the couch to make room. 

As the group of studious Ravenclaws did their house and founder proud, however, Harry found his mind wandering over recent events. Professor Quirrell and the mystery behind the troll remained present in his mind even as he used Padma Patil notes to finish McGonagall’s latest assignment. It was not difficult to imagine why some-one would go to all that after to steal a magical stone that could not only create gold, but make you immortal. 

What worried Harry was the who, not why. But as he sat looking at each of his fellow first years, Harry found himself smiling. Whatever the coming weeks had for him, he would be ready. 

“You’re losing focus again,” scolded Lisa Turpin. “Not very studious, Mister Hero.” 

“Are we studying or not?” asked Boot clueless. 

“We are,” confirmed Michael Corner with a side-ling smirk. “But I think you’re just staring at those notes hoping your assignment will write itself.” 

“Or suddenly burst into flames,” offered Boot cheerily. “That might work, too. Hey, Harry, you want to try burning it for me?” 

“Only after you finish writing,” chuckled Harry. “And even then only after you turn it in.” 

“So never, then,” giggled Padma Patil. 

“Just for that, I’m going to out-score all of you on the finals!” declared Terry Boot proudly. “Just wait and see.” 

As the group burst into laughter, with even Lisa Turpin stifling one, Harry laughed along with them. Happy to be here now. He would be ready for the coming weeks, but most importantly… 

He would be ready for the finals! 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	17. Met By Moonlight

Even in the final weeks of the Hogwarts school year, the life of Harry Potter quickly became one of routine. As actual classes began to focus solely on review lessons – with Professor Snape as a notable exception – many students turned to private study in preparation for the final exams. Ravenclaw, as befits their house, took to this with exceptional zeal and Harry’s own study group soon became one of many.

At night, all through-out the Ravenclaw common-room and the castle library, groups of two to eight students could be found huddled into tight corners behind stacks of books. First year to seventh year, regardless of age or house, almost everyone could be found buried behind the text-books of their worst subject.

Harry Potter was no exception. Nestled into a relatively quiet corner of the Ravenclaw commons, Harry fixed his emerald gaze on a particularly frustrating snuffbox with a small wiggling tail waving behind it.

“At least you can use the tail to hang it from something,” offered Lisa Turpin teasingly with a mild glance over the top of her Herbology book, _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_. “Some might consider that an improvement.”

“I doubt McGonagall will be as understanding,” remarked Terry Boot, a list of potions ingredients and their respective brews spread out around him.

“So glad you two have so much advice to offer,” said Harry sharply before waving his crooked black wand over the snuffbox. “ _Reparifarge!_ ” There was a brief flash of light before the small ornate box turned back into an equally as small brown mouse.

Emerald eyes met the beady black ones of the mouse in the briefest of glares before the creature gave a startled squeak and ran away from the small group in fright. Harry watched it go silently, but Padma Patil gave a startled gasp as it ran over her Defense Against the Dark Arts notes.

“Please, Harry,” the Indian girl began in fright. “Don’t ever do that again!”

“Sorry,” he replied shortly. With a sigh, the only Potter child ran a hand through his wild hair, saying, “Why do we even need to learn this, anyway? How often does turning a rat into a box come up?”

“I think it’s more a practice of theory, rather than practical applications,” suggested Turpin. “Better you practice with a mouse than fail trying to give yourself gills or wings or something equally animalistic.”

“Also helps solve rodent problems,” laughed Boot.

“Remind me never to touch any of your things ever again,” responded Patil in disgust.

As Boot flushed in embarrassment, Harry allowed himself a chuckle before turning back to his Transfiguration notes. He had just been reading—

“Harry,” interrupted a soft voice. Turning to greet it, he was met with the bright eyes of Penelope Clearwater. “Hello, Harry. Studying hard, I see?”

“I’m trying,” he said, sending the direction his test mouse had ran away a sad look. “Have to, really, with exams less than a full week away. How about you?”

“This one promises to be a difficult year for me,” sighed Clearwater. With a shake of her head, though, she was back to smiling. “Nevermind me, though. Professor Flitwick wants to see you in his office first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Flitwick?” asked Harry confused. “Did he say why?”

Sending a quick glance towards the blatantly interested eyes of Patil and Boot and the covert gaze of Turpin, Penelope Clearwater leaned forward and whispered, “Your detention.”

Suddenly remembering his duel with Granger and the resulting flaming tree, Harry nodded in understanding. “Thank you for telling me,” he said softly.

Standing up straight, she smiled gently down at him. “No trouble at all,” she said happily. “Good luck on your finals, Harry!”

“You, too,” he said to her retreating back.

“What did she say?” asked the ever curious Padma Patil.

“Nothing,” he lied. “Just that Professor Flitwick wanted to see me.”

“What for?” question Lisa Turpin, her eyes narrowing.

“No idea,” he shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Probably nothing.”

“Yeah, probably,” agreed the other boy. “Since you are done with your work for now, do you think you could help me with this potion?” He then pushed his potions book towards Harry.

Rolling his eyes, Harry said, “I’ll do what I can.” He was confident in his own ability to learn a simple transfiguration spell, but it would be a wonder if Terry Boot even made it into the next year.

* * *

Harry awoke early the next morning and just barely managed to sneak out of his shared room, making sure to leave a still sleeping Stephen Cornfoot and a loudly snoring Terry Boot undisturbed.

He took time enough to change into his regular Hogwarts robes before making his way down the chilly castle halls. Professor Flitwick’s office was secluded away in the spire across from Ravenclaw Tower; the same tower Hedwig was probably sleeping in now, he idly remembered. Thankfully, the ever temperamental Hogwarts stair-way decided to cooperate today and not even thirty minutes later Harry found himself staring up at a large brown loop with an eagle knocker.

Rapping on the door three times in quick succession, Harry waited patiently and a few seconds later the door drifted open to reveal small beady eyes. “M-mister Potter?” came the squeaky voice of Filius Flitwick, the door swinging open fully. “You’re much earlier than I was expecting!”

Which seemed true as the short professor was still dressed in what appeared to be his night clothes. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Harry awkwardly. “I can come back later if—“

“No trouble, no trouble,” dismissed the charms teacher. “Come in, would you?” Flitwick stepped aside, ushering the young student in with a wave of his hand.

Harry nodded in acceptance, stepping inside before the professor shut the door behind him. Suddenly realizing he had actually never had a reason to come here before, Harry’s emerald eyes traveled the room in a sweeping glance. It contained much of what you would normally expect, with a desk and a couple chairs, but there was a two step ladder leading up to the chair behind the desk. A few – still sleeping – paintings were spread about and the occasional either floating or glowing baubles were quick to distract.

What really caught Harry’s attention, however, was the glass cabinet containing various gold and silver trophies and a few certificates. Most of the certificates were related to Charms in some way; one granting an “ _F. Flitwick_ ” the title of Charms Master and another recognizing “ _F. Flitwick_ ” as Charms professor of Hogwarts.

The trophies, though, were all for dueling. A silver was emblazoned with lettering, saying, “ _1967 All-England Wizarding Dueling Competition, Filius Flitwick, Second Place_ ” but the next few after it were all golds ones ranging from 1968 to 1972 and they were first place. There were also various other trophies from a variety of international competitions and not a single one of them ranked less than second place.

“From my more adventurous days,” said Flitwick with a smile and a bright twinkle in his eyes.

“They’re amazing!” gasped Harry honestly. “How did you get so many?”

“Many often forget how dangerous good charms work can be,” laughed the short professor. “So many focus on either blasting spells or transfiguration tactics.”

“I had no idea charms could help so much. It makes all this,” he gestured to the awards. “Even more impressive.”

“Well, my height may have also helped; smaller target and all that,” smiled Flitwick. “But I don’t think you came to talk about my dueling history.”

“I wish I had,” nodded Harry. “But no, sir.”

The older man nodded, his lips wriggling beneath his bushy mustache. “Of course not. You came because we need to talk about _your_ dueling.”

“I really didn’t mean to set fire to that tree, sir,” said a now blushing Harry.

“I thought not, Mr. Potter,” he said easily. “From all accounts, your duel with Ms. Granger was nothing less than stupendous considering both your ages.”

“It really wasn’t that impressive,” mumbled Harry. “I basically just threw the best spells I could think of at the time.”

“You’d be surprised how many world champions that makes if you know the right spells,” smirked Flitwick. More seriously, he added, “But alas there are also wrong spells to choose, too. Sometimes even the simple Fire-Making Spell.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I know you do,” Flitwick’s tone seemed understanding as he looked up at his student. “And in your position it was a rather inspired solution. I assume you do not know a counter-spell for the Smokescreen Spell?”

“Didn’t know, sir,” corrected Harry. “I looked one up almost as soon as I woke up in the infirmary.”

Flitwick’s chuckle sounded more like a very amused mouse, the sounds coming as high pitched squeaks. “Very good,” he smiled. “Fitting of my Ravenclaw House. Were we not here to discuss your detention, I would likely have given you points for that alone.”

“About that, sir?” began Harry nervously. “What is my detention, and when is it? With exams starting next week…”

“Not to worry, Harry,” he waved his hand in a calming motion. “You should have plenty of time for your studies. As for your detention…” He paused, seemingly searching for the words to explain. “It was decided, since it was our fine Grounds Keeper who handled the tree, that your detention should be to assist him.”

“Filch?” there was no mistaking the alarm in his voice. “But, sir—“

“Grounds Keeper, not Caretaker,” corrected the professor easily. “Have you not met the Keeper, Rubeus Hagrid? He guided you first years to the castle.”

“In passing,” admitted Harry relieved. “But I don’t remember ever speaking to him. Not for long, anyway.”

“Good time to make friends, then,” nodded Flitwick. “You and Ms. Granger will meet at the entrance hall tonight at eleven. It will be at Mr. Hagrid’s discretion what you will be doing. Something outside, no doubt.”

“Outside?” wondered Harry. “At night? What about the Forbidden Forest? Isn’t it dangerous at night, sir?”

“It can be,” agreed the professor. “But I have faith in Mr. Hagrid; no harm will come to you.”

“R-right, sir,” nodded Harry woodenly. “No harm at all…”

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a blur to Harry’s eyes.

They had an uneventful Herbology lesson with Professor Sprout reviewing the long list of plants and creatures they had covered, but Harry could only think of how it was her fault he would be trapped in the Forbidden Forest with Granger all night.

Terry Boot and Lisa Turpin kept sending him odd looks, but he paid them no mind. Even in the few free hours they had after classes, while everyone gathered together in the common-room to study as had become their usual, Harry found himself sitting off to the side flipping through his Defense Against the Dark Arts book in search of… something to help protect him from the various creatures found in the forest.

“I didn’t know you were worried about Defense,” remarked Terry Boot. “Or are you just bored with Transfiguration work?”

“Something like that,” answered Harry distractedly. With a sigh, he tossed his book onto the table. “Still nothing…” he grumbled. In the couple days leading up to his duel with Granger he had already exhausted every spell worth knowing from that book.

“It was something Flitwick said,” realized Turpin. “You’ve been distracted since you came back.”

“My detention will be wondering around the Forbidden Forest all night,” said Harry, answering her unspoken question.

“That seems harsh for setting one tree on fire,” said Boot, scratching the back of his neck. “Aren’t there werewolves and whole heaps of other beasts in there? It’s forbidden for a reason.”

“Apparently it was Hagrid’s idea; you know, the Grounds Keeper,” scoffed Harry. “I don’t think I’ve even seen him use magic before.”

“Maybe he’s a Squib?” shrugged Turpin. “I doubt you’ll be going in too deep.”

“Just to be safe, though,” said Harry, suddenly standing as he remembered one other book he had. “I’m going to get some rest before I have to go.”

“Get some sleep,” waved Boot. “And good luck!”

* * *

Only a few hours later, Harry made his way down from Ravenclaw Tower and towards the Entrance Hall. He had decided to wear an extra layer under his robes to guard against the night-time chill, but he could already feel the gusts of air biting at his face as he walked down the halls.

When he finally arrived, he was not surprised to see Hermione Granger already there looking as cluelessly deferent as always. He met her eyes briefly, but scoffed and looked at the person at her side. This one did surprise him as he met the narrowed eyes of Argus Flich.

“Almost late, I see,” the man seemed to growl. Lifting a lantern, the castle Caretaker pointed the flame down the hall and said, “Follow me.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the old man’s back, but followed silently; Granger was only a few steps behind him. Harry sent the lantern a pointed look, wondering in silence why he did not just use the much brighter Wand-Lighting Charm. Heedless of his thoughts, Filch did not allow the silence to last long, however, and went on a tirade about the “old punishments” that seemed more fitting for a Muggle torture dungeon than a wizard’s, but after the third finger-nail pulling story he started tuning the man out.

The castle at night stood in bright contrast to the dark that surrounded it, and the high moon above them did little to change that. Still, it was better than a bright _full moon_ making him worry about being attacked by a werewolf.

Just as Harry suspected, though, the annoying old man was taking them towards the Forbidden Forest. Even Granger seemed to have already guessed as much because she did not seem surprised, either. Instead, the only sign of movement came from ahead as a large man stepped out of the dark with a dog at his side and… a crossbow? Where was everyone’s wands?

“Abou’ time,” the large man known as Rubeus Hagrid said in a gruff sounding voice. “I bin waitin’ half an hour.”

“Had to give ‘em the grand tour,” said Filch with a cackle. “Might be their last peaceful sight.”

“That’s why yer late, is it? Tryin’ to scare them?” accused Hagrid accurately. “’Snot your place. Now yeh’ve done yer bit, I’ll take ‘em from here.”

“I'll be back at dawn for whatever's left of you,” laughed Flich before hobbling back towards the castle, his lantern the only light to guide him.

“Now then,” said Hagrid with what Harry thought was his attempt at a smile. “Good seein’ yeh again, Harry! Why, I think the last time I got a good look at yeh, yeh’s barely bigger than ah toddler!”

“Hello,” greeted Harry awkwardly. “Nice to properly meet you, Mr. Hagrid.”

“Please, just Hagrid’s fine,” he said. “And yer friend, there?”

“Hermione Granger,” she introduced herself. “Pleased to meet you.”

“P’lite, the both of yeh! Easy to tell how you two are friends,” he laughed again and Harry contemplated whether he should correct the man; he and Granger were not friends. Amusingly enough, Granger seemed conflicted for the same reason and that was enough motive for Harry to remain silent.

“N’more time ta waste,” Hagrid suddenly bellowed. “Onward!” He then began to lead them on a merry march towards the forest.

Rolling his eyes, Harry said, “Right behind you.” To Granger, he added, “You coming, _friend_?” She returned his question with a short glare before rushing ahead of him, trailing behind Hagrid by a few steps as they made their way into the forest.

The chilly night winds seemed to pick up even more as they found themselves under the canopy of trees. However, the sound of howling winds was joined in concert with what seemed to be very loud crickets, random twigs snapping from deep within, and the occasional whistling sound of… something.

Hagrid seemed at ease with everything around him and Granger looked calm enough at his side, but Harry sent each surprise noise a pointed look as he palmed his wand. “Nothin’ to be scared about,” sound Hagrid loudly. “Ain’t nothin’ but the wind and a few more agile creatures ‘bout.”

“Just nervous, I guess,” replied Harry. After a few more moments of silent walking, he asked, “Exactly what are we here for, sir?”

“No need to be callin’ me ‘sir’, Harry,” said Hagrid. “And did I forget to tell yeh? Some of the forest creatures been found dead recently. Found two unicorns dead this past week alone.”

“Unicorns?” asked Granger in surprise. “How terrible!”

“Ain’t it?” said Hagrid sorrowfully.

“You said killed?” interrupted Harry. “What if it tries to kill us next?”

“Nothin’ that lives in this forest here will hurt yeh if yer with me or Fang here,” he motioned one of his massive hands towards the dog at his side.

“But,” started Harry, unconvinced. “What if it’s not something that lives in this forest that’s been doing the killing?”

“Just stick close ter me and yeh’ll be fine,” he said again, patting his crossbow in a show of confidence. Harry felt less confident from that act alone. Where was his wand?

They kept a fairly steady pace as they searched the forest, their only light being the pillars of white that shone from the moon that pierced the brush of tree leaves above. It put Harry in the mind of reflected light off glass, but mostly just left him wondering why they did not simply use their wands to guide them.

Hagrid moved with a youthful sort of energy despite his size and even Granger seemed to be enjoying their walk through a monster infested forest. “Could it have been trolls?” asked Harry, his eyes narrowing at what sounded like a tree collapsing further in the forest. “Some leave here, right?”

“Some do,” confirmed Hagrid. “But I doub’ that’s what did this; unicorns bein’ innocent and all. Wouldn’t be much of the body left if it was, too.”

“Right,” nodded Harry. Because they would eat their kill. _Ergh_ … Bad memories.

They followed pillars of moon light deeper in until they finally stopped at a fork. Hagrid seemed to be stroking his beard in thought. “Shame,” he began. “We ain’t got more people. We could split here and cover more ground.”

“We still could,” offered Granger, ignoring the glare Harry sent her in response.

“Nah,” he shook his head. “Bes’ we stay together fer now.” They took the left path and continued as they were.

After only a few more minutes of walking, they came to a sudden stop when they heard it: loud wailing. Not the wind, as Harry had first hoped, but undeniably the sound of something crying out it in pain – a noise so terrible the dog, Fang, let out a pitiful moan before running the opposite direction. “Tha’ has got to be it,” declared Hagrid needlessly, before rushing in, Granger and a reluctant Harry following behind.

They followed the direction the wail had come from, but before taking even a few steps Harry could see the splattered trails of liquid silver smeared into the ground. Unicorn blood! “Can’t have gotte’ far with a wound like tha’!” observed Hagrid. “Be ready, yeh two!”

Withdrawing his wand, Harry tried to look in every direction at once; doing his best to keep track of every detail around him. Granger seemed startled, but was trying to do much the same.

When the lumbering form of Hagrid finally came to a stop a short ways ahead of them, the large man was quick to raise his crossbow. “Who’s there!?” he demanded loudly. “Show yerself! I’m armed!”

Peering around the much larger man, Harry caught sight of the downed unicorn before anything else. The once white horse looking creature with a proud glowing horn atop its head was split in half and sprawled across the ground before them; the space between the two halves alight as the moon shimmered off the silver blood.

Seemingly crouched behind the carnage was a black silhouette of a figure. Harry caught the flashing of its bright red eyes before noticing the barest hint of a grin seconds before Hagrid’s crossbow shot from his hand and crashed into a nearby tree. A heartbeat after that the large man was struck full on in the chest by what seemed to be a ball of yellow. The moment it made contact, the ball exploded, knocking back the humongous man and sending him slamming into a couple of trees.

Harry felt his knees go numb as the grounds keeper was taken out so quickly. Hagrid lay prone on the forest floor, motionless yet still breathing. Hermione Granger stood a couple feet ahead of him, her eyes seemingly frozen on the beast still crouched over the unicorn.

Finding the will to move, Harry lifted his shaky wand hand up, aiming the jittery instrument at the beast and saying the first spell that came to mind: “D _-Diffindo!_ ” The beast gave a quick lurch backwards, clutching its head in pain and releasing a shrill wail of anger.

“Granger!” hissed Harry. “Granger, move!” Nodding stiffly, the muggle-born finally started moving as she and Harry made for a nearby thicket of trees.

His feet slamming against the hard forest floor beneath him, Harry felt his breathe come in sharp and haggard puffs. He wanted, more than anything, to look back; to check on Granger, to see if Hagrid was okay, to see if the beast was following him, but he just kept running.

Bounding over a collapsed tree trunk and skipping around various vines, Harry kept his pace until he found himself in a wide clearing. Even the now typical shade of trees had broken through and the moon bore down on him in full.

“Do you th-think Hagrid is okay?” asked Granger nervously, apparently having also made it.

“D-don’t know!” gasped Harry, hunched as he was trying to catch his breathe. “He’s a wizard, too, so he should be fine.”

“R-right,” nodded the girl, only now thinking to pull out her wand.

“More importantly,” continued Harry, finding his breathing came easier now. “What was that!? It wasn’t anything I’ve heard about from this forest.”

“ _Hogwarts: A History_ says dozens of creatures live in this forest,” said Granger. “Maybe one of those is…” She trailed off, not really knowing what to say.

“We need to get back to the castle and warn somebody!” decided Harry. “Maybe then we can—“

Howling interrupted him this time; also not the wind but also not another unicorn dying. “That sounded like Fang!” cried Hermione Granger. Without waiting for a response she started rushing towards the direction of the sound and back into the forest.

“W-wait!” called Harry desperately. “What are you doing!? What about getting help?” When no reply came from the running Gryffindor, he gritted his teeth in frustration and chased after her.

He barely made it a few steps before nearly crashing into the girl’s back. “Why’d you stop? We need to—“ His words died in his throat. They had found Fang.

The dog had apparently made it all this way before… before…

“Oh, God!” cried Hermione and Harry could barely hear it.

Fang had found its way into an acromantula trap. The brown tufts of fur on the dog were smeared red and its neck seemed to be twisted at an odd angle as it lay beside a large hole dug out of the ground, but what truly horrified the two was the long limbed killer spread above it.

Eight long and hairy limbs were tangled about the fallen body of Fang, the black pincer like appendages moving about the torn wounds and seemingly sucking on whatever it could reach. It seemed to click in approval of its meal as its empty blacks eyes seemed to stare out into nothingness.

Swallowing thickly, Harry placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “G-Granger,” his whispered as quietly as he could. “W-we need to go before it—“ _Snap!_

Too late. From above them, dangling on a thread of its own making, was another acromantula. It’s long legs seemed to be reaching for them and clicking sounds could be heard echoing around them.

“We need to move! Now!” yelled Harry, shoving the Gryffindor out of the way as the spider dropped down on them. Aiming his wand at the beast’s many eyes, Harry hissed, “ _Diffindo!_ ” The spider screeched in pain before jumping back in fear.

“We need to go!” he shouted towards the downed Granger. Seemingly only now realizing their situation, the bushy haired girl pushed her way up. As she did, Harry tried to count the dozen or so acromantula that began pouring out from the darkness around them.

“Let’s go!” he shouted before breaking into a run, Granger only a few steps behind him and the spiders only a few behind her. Their long legs, however, gave them a clear advantage.

Doing his best to keep pace as he did, Harry tried to hit one of the gaining spiders. “ _Flipendo!_ ” The spell knocked back the spider about to land on Granger.

“Potter!” she screamed suddenly. Harry barely had time to dive out of the way as a spider leapt in his direction. Running towards him, the girl aimed her own wand at the beast and shouted, “ _Arania Exumai!_ ” The spider was sent hurtling back by a seeming wall of pure light that burned the area around it.

“Of course she knows a spell that specifically hurts spiders,” grumbled Harry. More loudly, he said, “Thanks!”

“Let’s move!”

Running for their lives as they swatted each on-coming acromantula away with their respective spells, the two pushed themselves until Harry could feel his chest burning with every rushed breathe he took. Thankfully, they could finally see the bright lights emitted from Hagrid’s house just passed a line of trees.

“We’ve almost made it!” huffed Harry raggedly.

“Watch out!” screamed Hermione. “ _Arania Exumai!_ ” Her spell blasted one of the acromantula that had been gaining on Harry.

When they finally cleared the forest, the two collapsed against the stone wall of Hagrid’s home with a burning sigh, but only had a second to enjoy the pause for air as they dived away to avoid the acromantula that slammed into the stone a second later.

Gritting his teeth in pain, Harry screamed, “ _Incendio!_ ” before the spider disappeared in a hail of heat and orange.

Meanwhile, Granger batted another away, shouting, “ _Arania Exumai!_ ” One spider was thrust back into the forest, but another soon took its place.

“There’s too many!” hissed Harry, turning in time to dodge another leap. Just as he was about to release another spell, though, the acromantula collapsed from an arrow bolt slamming into its eye.

Rubeus Hagrid limped out of the forest line, crossbow in hand, with only a few cuts about him and a particularly mean look in his eyes. “Yeh okay!?” he called out.

Harry could not remember being happier seeing anyone else in his life… A happiness short lived when the house he was bracing himself against exploded into flames. Bursting from those flames was a brownish orange _dragon_ only just smaller than Harry, but apparently still capable of flight. And breathing fire. Lots of fire.

The dragon – and who could believe that? – fluttered from the house, breathing fire and scaring the remaining acromantula back into the forest before apparently deciding to follow them. The trail of red flames and burning trees the only sign of its direction or course.

“Norbert!” called Hagrid frantically. “Come back!” 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! That was a lot to have happen in one chapter. Everything just kept getting worse and worse for poor Harry. For anyone confused about Norbert the Dragon: without Ron Weasley and his convenient dragon handler brother, there was no-one to take Norbert from Hagrid.
> 
> Hope you are looking forward to the fallout from this! Make sure to leave a comment and tell me what you thought.


	18. Rumor Has It

“I don’t even know how to explain this,” muttered the confused voice of Auror veteran Proudfoot. The thirty-something witch was holding a quill and note-pad as she looked over the rows of burnt and charred tree chunks that now formed the perimeter line of the Forbidden Forest. The half-smoldering ashes of what remained of Rubeus Hagrid’s house lay behind her. 

“Any idea, sir?” she asked the red-robbed man beside her. 

James Potter frowned in response, cupping his chin with his right hand, and sighed. “Illegal dragon breeding,” he said at last. “Results in damage to Hogwarts grounds.” 

She scribbled on her pad for a moment before asking, “And the apparent colony of Acromantula spiders?” She pointed her quill towards the dozen or so dead acromantula bodies surrounding them. 

“Acromantula presence discovered,” sighed James Potter. “Auror Captain Potter recommends immediate action from the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.” 

She wrote a bit more before asking, “And the Hogwarts employee that started all this?” She again pointed her quill; this time towards a sobbing Rubeus Hagrid, who sat mournfully in the ruins of his home. Auror Proudfoot cringed a little when the massive man sucked in a particularly large glob of snot back into his nose. 

“Auror Captain James Potter,” he repeated. “Recommends he be held for questions in a Ministry holding cell.” 

“Right,” nodded Auror Proudfoot, a few more strokes on her note-pad followed. “And about the—“ 

Before she could even finish, James said, “Not a word.” 

“But, sir,” her voice seemed hesitant as she spoke. “We have two Hogwarts first years involved!” 

James Potter seemed conflicted as he looked towards the two students in question: Hermione Granger and his son, Harry. Both were sitting as far from the ruined house, Hagrid, and the Forbidden Forest as possible and had remained unnaturally quiet since they had first arrived. 

“Just try not to mention them in the report too much,” conceded James, his eyes lingering on Harry’s exhausted looking face. He added, “They’ve been through enough.” 

“Of course, sir,” she nodded. “Only when necessary.” 

The two likely would have fallen silent then, but the unmistakable _pop!_ of Apparition heralded the arrival of some-one James Potter was not looking forward to seeing today: Albus Dumbledore. 

The elderly head-master of Hogwarts appeared only a foot away from the ruined house. His bright blue eyes surveyed the area around him in a sad glance; going from ruins, to sobbing man, to children easily before resting on James Potter. 

“Good morning, Headmaster,” said James automatically. “It’s been awhile.” 

“Indeed, it has,” nodded Dumbledore, his voice sounding strained. “Too long. Although, I wish it were under better circumstances.” 

Auror Proudfoot looked between the two men before quickly stepping aside, allowing her superior to handle the conversation to come. She busied herself looking over the scene, making note of various things on her pad. 

James Potter, however, met the sad eyes of Albus Dumbledore and sighed. “I have to report this, Albus,” he said. “No choice about that.” 

“I know you do,” nodded Albus understandingly. 

“And Minister Fudge won’t just let this go,” added James. “Dragon breeding is a dangerous thing to be doing. He’ll be pushing for Azkaban.” 

“Sadly, I am aware,” nodded Albus Dumbledore again. “But I don’t intend to allow my dear friend to be sent there.” Meanwhile, Rubeus Hagrid let out another wail; tears falling in equal parts for the lost Norbert and dead Fang. 

“Which will attract his attention,” reminded James needlessly. “Lucius Malfoy won’t just let all this go unnoticed. He’ll push for you to be removed.” 

“Not for the first time,” said Dumbledore, this time with a slight up-turn of a smile. “And I suspect he’ll fail again.” 

“None-the-less,” continued James. “He’ll be using my report as evidence and with Arthur’s bill coming up next month, I won’t be able to help you on this.” 

“I have survived more serious trouble than this, I assure you,” smiled Dumbledore easily. “I find myself more worried for Hagrid.” The older man sent a sad look towards the still sobbing man before asking, “If that will be all?” 

“Just be careful, Albus,” warned James Potter. “And take care of yourself.” 

“That I shall do,” nodded Dumbledore. “And I wish the same to you, but first you should look to your son.” He gestured towards the still quietly sitting Harry before smiling and making his way towards Rubeus Hagrid. 

James Potter watched him go in silence before turning towards his son. Harry Potter still sat quietly, but it was only now that James could tell how truly tired his son looked: his skin was pale and his eyes seemed distant as he stared off into the forest absently. 

Hermione Granger, who sat a few feet away from Harry, looked even worse than him. Not only did she look exhausted, she looked terrified; her eyes kept shifting from the ruined house to the burnt forest, as if expecting either the dragon to return or another swarm of acromantula. Auror Proudfoot was currently crouched down in-front of the younger girl and seemed to be trying to get her to speak. 

Seeing the girl taken care of, James Potter turned his focus solely on his son. Now what to say— 

 “It’s been a long night,” said Harry before James had a chance to speak. “And I think she got the worst of it.” 

“I wouldn’t ignore what you’ve been though, either,” retorted James. He was never that good as this kind of talk; he could joke with Harry or tell funny stories, but he always felt awkward when they had their rare father to son moments. “You were there for everything she was.” 

“I guess,” said Harry, but his voice was distant. “I might just be used to it now. After October.” 

“October?” asked James confused. There was the first he had heard anything about it, and Lily had not mentioned it either.

“Nothing,” Harry shook his head. “Doesn’t matter now.” 

James wanted to disagree, but now did not seem the time to push the boy. “The dragon is gone, at least,” he fell into his Auror mode. Sometimes it made things easier. “Probably have Ministry hunters searching for it by tomorrow. The acromantula colony, too." 

Harry seemed to flinch at the mention of acromantula. Seeing this, James said easily, “You are going to be safe now, Harry. I don’t know why a first year was sent into the forest, but…” 

“It was his fault,” interrupted Harry, sending a pointed look in the direction of Rubeus Hagrid, who was being comforted by Albus Dumbledore. “He led us in there and I don’t even think he can use magic.” 

“The Ministry is going to look into this,” said James uneasily. “If its found Hagrid acted rashly, he will be punished.” 

“Good,” muttered Harry quietly, but James still heard him. His voice reminded James of that night, all those years ago, when Harry had asked him about Muggles and it also reminded him of the thing he most regretted not doing that night. 

Steeling himself for barely a moment, the Auror Captain gave way to the concerned father as James Potter quickly knelt down to his son; his bright crimson Auror robes dirtying themselves in the mud beneath him. 

Harry had less than a second to process the motion before he was swallowed in a surprise hug. James held his son awkwardly for a moment, neither knowing what to really do or say and neither able to remember the last time this had happened. 

It was James who pulled away first, saying, “You are my son, Harry. I want nothing more than for you and your mother to be safe and happy.” 

“I know, dad,” replied Harry, not knowing what else to say. 

“You’re just eleven now,” continued James regardless. “Your biggest concern now should be getting all those Outstanding on your finals like me and your mother expect. You shouldn’t have to worry about… Whatever it was that happened here.” 

Smiling, the father said to the son, “I want you to know you can always come to me – or your mother – about anything. If it involves you: not only do we want to know, we care about it more than anything else.” The look in Harry‘s eyes told him the boy had heard him; that he would remember what he had said then. 

The sting Harry felt in his eyes was from the wind, or at least that is what the boy told himself. “Thanks, dad!” he said because there was nothing else he could say. 

This time, when they hugged, it was Harry who initiated it. 

* * *

Harry was allowed to return to the Ravenclaw dormitory a short while later with a promise from his father to “take care of everything” and a simple “good luck” on his exams. So it was with exhausted effort that Harry found himself nearly dragging his feet up the many stairs leading to the Ravenclaw Tower. 

His exhaustion must have shown, however, because even the bronze eagle head knocker decided not to ask him a riddle and merely opened its door with a whispered, “ _Get some rest._ ” Smiling briefly, Harry intended to do just that. 

The rising sun outside lit the common-room in a glowing sea of blue as the similarly colored walls and furniture appeared to shine. The whole thing only forced Harry to squint and reminded him of how exhausted he felt. 

On his way towards his room, though, he noticed the pile of sleeping bodies surrounding a table. Terry Boot lay snoring against a potions book with Michael Corner using his back as a pillow and his legs hanging off the end of the couch they were on. 

Padma Patil was nestled into the corner of the opposite couch with a roll of parchment on her lap and a quill on the floor beside her. Most surprising to Harry was the lightly sleeping Lisa Turpin curled up in a chair between the two. 

Yawning, Harry found himself collapsing on the couch Patil occupied. Immediately he could feel his tense muscles relaxing and the stress of the previous night roll off his skin. He could also feel the sudden tugging on his eyelids, but he refused to give in to them when he noticed something else: his books. 

Stacked neatly in the corner were his Transfiguration notes; not there for Boot to copy from or for anyone else to use, but seemingly there just for him. It was only then that he realized he had never told them when he would return. 

“Must have been expecting me back earlier,” grumbled Harry, his eyes moving from Boot to Patil to Turpin’s face. “You didn’t have to do that.” He spoke to no-one, at least not that they could hear, and was not surprised when no-one replied. 

With a sigh that seemed to drain whatever strength he had left in him, Harry fell back into the couch. As his eyes began to close he caught the sight of shifting brown hair, but was asleep only seconds later. 

* * *

Unfortunately, Harry Potter was lightly shaken awake only hours later. When emerald eyes fluttered open he was met with dark brown colored eyes curtained by raven hair, but his weary mind still quickly matched those two features to his memory of Padma Patil. 

Blinking tiredly, Harry also noticed he was looking straight up into those eyes and he could feel something soft beneath him. Shifting to his side, he realized he was currently laying on his house-mates lap. Quickly lifting himself up, Harry moved himself to the other side of the couch. Blushing brightly, Harry nodded his head, saying, “Sorry…” 

Padma Patil looked to the side, also blushing, and replied, “D-don’t worry about it. I think you just moved around in your sleep. You must have been tired from last night.” 

“Or he was thinking significantly less than innocent thoughts,” drawled a voice from behind them. Lisa Turpin stood behind the couch, her arms crossed, and stared down on Harry accusingly. 

“Or I was out all night and fell asleep the moment I sat down,” gripped back Harry before meeting her stare with a glare of his own. 

The two first years kept their impromptu staring contest going for a number of seconds before it was finally broken when Lisa Turpin seemed to nod her head in satisfaction. “You seem well,” she suddenly announced while giving Harry a strange look. She seemed happy. 

“Yeah, I guess,” muttered Harry confused. 

“We were worried,” said Patil in explanation. “Since you were gone for so long.” 

“Went deep into the forest, I assume?” offered Turpin. 

“You could say that,” mumbled Harry, really not wanting to talk about this. 

He was saved from giving any more when Terry Boot walked into the room, shouting, “Harry!” The excitable boy then rushed towards them, saying, “We thought the werewolves might have gotten you! Turpin was freaking!” 

“I was not!” snapped the normally calm girl in question. “I merely suggested a possible scenario of what may have occurred last night.” 

Looking very confused, Boot blinked at her and said, “Not sure how the Giant Squid in the lake might have gotten Harry if he was in the forest.” 

“One of many possible scenario,” amended Turpin angrily. “If you insist on such slander, I will take my leave.” Nodding to Harry, she added, “I am going to get breakfast before classes start.” She then left them all with a huff before rushing out of the room. 

“Slander?” asked Terry Boot. 

Harry shrugged in reply. Stretching out his still aching muscles, Harry ignored the occasional popping sounds and said, “Don’t know, but I could use a bite to eat.” 

“Same!” cheered Boot. 

“I could eat, too,” agreed Patil. 

* * *

The three Ravenclaws managed to make their way for the Hogwarts Great Hall less than an hour later in significantly higher spirits that Harry would have expected ever being after having been fighting for his life less than ten hours ago, but life was strange sometimes. 

They even managed to find Lisa Turpin when they arrived, but the girl only nodded to Harry and Patil before sending Boot a chilly look and ignoring them the rest of the feast. Harry was not surprised to find Professor Dumbledore missing from the usual group of morning breakfast attendees, but he did not allow that to distract him. 

Stabbing at his food with a particular relish, Harry smiled contently as he swallowed his gains. Nothing like surviving a near death experience to make the food taste better! He paused mid-chew. “Probably not something a first year should be able to say,” he muttered to himself. 

“What was that?” asked Boot after swallowing a spoonful of eggs. 

“Nothing,” answered Harry, deciding to merely enjoy the day and pretend last night never happened. 

When Hermione Granger arrived to the feast only thirty minutes later, however, any hopes of that were quick to come to an end. The first year Gryffindor was surrounded by a group of older years asking questions Harry could only vaguely hear over the hum of conversations in the hall, but some words repeated themselves. Words like: forest, spiders, Auror, and dragon. 

Feeling a growing sense of dread when he saw one of those older years break off from the group to speak with a girl in Hufflepuff, his dread turned to worry when a boy next to her ran over towards Penelope Clearwater and the other Ravenclaw older years. 

“You seem worried, Harry,” noted Padma Patil. “Is everything alright?” 

“No,” he said sadly, watching as Clearwater pushed herself up from the table. “No, they are not.” 

Penelope Clearwater marched down the Ravenclaw table with purpose in her eyes and it frightened Harry to see those eyes focused solely on him; almost as much as when he had first seen those acromantula in the forest. 

“ _Harry James Potter_ ,” started Cleawater in much the same was his mum did when she was angry yet still worried. How did she even know his middle name? “What do you think you are doing here?” 

“Eating?” offered Harry, not sure what she wanted him to say. His raised his fork up it was he hoped was sufficient proof. 

“That I can see,” she sounded more angry than worried now. “But when you survive being attacked by a dragon I would expect you to be with Madam Pomfrey by now!” 

All conversation around them died. Not ended, not stopped, but died. Padma Patil looked horrified and Terry Boot looked like he was expecting the punch line of some joke. Even further up the table, most of the older years seemed torn between those two reactions. 

Realizing all this, Harry chose his words carefully: “The dragon did not even touch me. I was too busy fighting the acromantulas to even notice before the dragon flew off into the forest!” 

Penelope Clearwater did not seem comforted. “Acromantula! I hadn’t even heard about those!” she screeched, making Harry flinch. Apparently he had not chosen carefully enough. 

“It really wasn’t that bad,” Harry tried to reason. “I managed to get away from them. Not a scratch on me!” 

“And the dragon?” she pressed. 

“Not sure where that came from,” answered Harry honestly. “Hagrid's house just sort of exploded and there it was.” 

“Hagrid?” asked Clearwater. “The Grounds Keeper? I haven’t seen him today.” 

“Maybe the Ministry arrested him?” offered Boot as explanation. “If he had a dragon then that’s illegal.” 

“There were Aurors there,” added Harry. “Maybe they did.” 

As the conversation shifted from Harry and onto dragons, the entire hall seemed to be talking about the same thing, too. Older and younger student years, regardless of house, were whispering amongst themselves about dragons and hidden acromantula colonies in the forest. 

By the time the feast finally came to an end and Ravenclaw started towards their last Potions class before exams, the story about last night had spread to everyone. That alone would not have bothered Harry, but some of the facts were off. 

“I heard Harry Potter and Hermione Granger fought and killed a dragon!” not-whispered Ernie McMillian as the two groups of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students waited for Professor Snape to open his classroom doors. 

“I heard it was just Harry who killed it!” disagreed Susan Bones. “You saw how he beat her when they dueled.” 

“But a dragon?” doubted Hannah Abbot. “That seems too much, even for him.”

“But remember how he killed that troll back in October,” added Megan Jones. “He threw it off the top of the castle!” 

“But a dragon?” repeated Abbot incredulously. 

The group of Hufflepuffs sent Harry an appraising look, as if trying to decide if he could really kill a dragon, and the Potter child was never happier with Professor Snape then when he chose that moment to open his doors. Even with the notoriously strict teacher looming over them all, however, Harry could still feel dozens of eyes poking him in the back of the head all throughout class. 

He could feel those stares and the looming question in them for the rest of the day. Even when Terry Boot, Padma Patil, and Lisa Turpin dragged him to the most secluded place they could find in the Hogwart library, some eyes never left him. 

“Well,” urged Boot. “Did you really?” 

“Did I really what?” asked Harry. He better not ask if--

“Did you and Granger really kill a dragon?” 

“No! Of course not!” snapped Harry. 

“Was it just you, then?” pressed Boot with a look of growing wonder in his eyes. 

“No, I never fought the dragon,” sighed Harry. “Granger and I just fought about a dozen acromantula.” 

“That’s still very impressive, Harry,” reminded Padma Patil. “It’s a miracle you two even survived.” 

Blushing, Harry looked away, saying, “I’m fine.” He made no move to continue when Padma and Terry looked at him expectantly. Sighing, Terry Boot then turned to the other member of their group: Lisa Turpin. 

“You’ve been pretty quiet, Turpin,” asked Boot. When the girl glared at him, he added, “Not that that’s unusual! Just that you’d usually be mocking somebody by now.” 

“Feeling ignored, Boot?” challenged Turpin. “I could insult you if that would make you feel better.” 

“Not quite what I meant,” muttered Boot sadly. 

“I think he means you seem distant today,” offered Patil gently. “You're always quiet, yes, but rarely distant.” 

Turpin clicked her tongue, the sound echoing in the quiet library, before answering, “I’m just surprised we had to hear about all this: the dragon and the acromantula, from Clearwater.” 

“Hey!” realized Boot. “That’s right! Harry! Why didn’t you tell us?” 

“It doesn’t really matter,” grumbled Harry. “It wasn’t really worth talking about.” 

“You see a dragon and you don’t think that’s worth talking about?” asked Boot incredulously. “That’s mental.” 

“I was tired, okay!” grunted Harry. “I just didn’t want to talk about it.” 

“We understand that, Harry,” said Patil soothingly. “Just know you can talk to us.” 

Emerald eyes met sincere dark brown for a few seconds before Harry looked down. “Right, thanks,” replied Harry awkwardly. Turpin eyed him strangely, but said nothing. 

“Wow, talks getting heavy!” laughed Terry Boot. “How about we focus on studying, huh?” 

“Of course!” agreed Padma Patil. “It’s history today, right? What were we supposed to study?” 

“The uprising of Elfric the Eager,” answered Turpin blandly. 

“Not more goblin rebellions,” cried Boot with fake tears in his eyes. “Harry, can I use you notes?” 

Thankful the conversation had moved away from him, Harry nodded happily. Pushing the notes towards Boot, he said, “Sure.” 

“Dragon slayer or not, you are my hero!” the other boy cheered in response, jumping up from his seat. Madam Turpin rolled her eyes in response, but Patil giggled. 

They spent the next couple hours going over very boring history notes before deciding to spend the rest of the evening working on their own subjects. Harry sat back watching Boot glare murderously at his Transfiguration book while Patil wrote down the instructions to the Cure Boils Potion and Lisa Turpin flipped through her Astronomy book with disdain. 

He watched all of this an found himself relax, happy things were back to normal, before withdrawing his own Charms book and began studying. He had exams to prepare for! 

* * *

Thankfully for Harry’s continued good mood, everyone seemed to remember exams were only a few days away by tomorrow morning and thoughts went from eleven year old dragon slaying to exam preparation. 

So while Ministry officials searched the Forbidden Forest for dragons and hidden acromantula nests, Hogwarts students studied. It was a comfortable routine that suited Harry just fine as he, Patil, Boot, and Turpin met up each night to do the same. 

An arrangement they kept to even after classes finally came to an end and the weekend before exams came and went. The Ravenclaw dormitory was crowded with groups of varying sizes practicing wand motions, trading notes, and all around getting ready for whatever finals might bring. 

When Harry James Potter awoke to greet the first day of exams it was with a challenging smirk. It was time to finish this school year! 

**TO BE CONCLUDED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to have this out earlier, but I lost internent for about a week. That always sucks.
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked this. Most just last minute things I wanted to have before the finale. Oh, yeah. Next chapter is the last of Book One, but it will be long one. Look forward to it! 
> 
> For savvy readers who noticed: despite this story only having nineteen chapters, it is marked at twenty. Chapter twenty will have some fun behind the scenes facts and will allow me to point out (and explain) some of the stranger references I included.


	19. Finals Week

The breakfast feast on the morning of exams was a much more nervous one than the morning prior. Even the normally studious Ravenclaw house was not alone as almost every member of every house sat at their respective table spooning eggs and bacon with one head while reading their notes with the other.

Ernie McMillian read off potions questions to a group of Hufflepuff, sneaking bites of toast between questions. This format was repeated up-and-down the table of the hard workers. Even Gryffindor had something similar as many of the house of the brave shouted out quiz questions to their fellows and it was a scramble at the time to answer.

Slytherin and Ravenclaw were more subdued by contrast. The students of the house of ambition read their notes quietly and to themselves while the house of the witty huddled together in their established study groups.

Across from Harry at the table, Terry Boot had not even touched his food while he stared at his Charms notes in despair. “I’m going to fail!” he cried to himself.

“You’re not going to fail,” said Michael Corner blandly from his side, a bit of sausage in his teeth and his Herbology book in hand.

“You don’t know that!”

“What about you, Harry?” asked Padma Patil, setting aside her history notes. “Are you worried about exams? Which one scares you the most?”

Swallowing the bit of egg he had been enjoying, Harry Potter thought for a moment before saying, “Transfiguration. It’s never really been my favorite class.” Between Granger’s constant question answering and the patronizing way McGonagall treated him there was no surprise in that.

“What about you?” he asked politely.

“I’m afraid what Professor Quirrell will have us do,” she confided. “We haven’t really done much this year.”

“Probably a few written tests and some spell work,” answered Lisa Turpin from behind her book on Astronomy, a pile of toast crust beside her. “If you can use the Wand-Lighting Charm you should be fine.”

“I hope so,” said Patil nervously.

Before any more worries could be shared, a flurry of owls poured in from outside. Many of the owls were carry small packages and many more brought letters. Harry looked up in time to see his snowy owl, Hedwig, land on the table in front of him.

Smiling at her, Harry scratched her head shortly. “What did you bring me, girl?” he asked. In reply the owl stuck out her leg revealing the daily newspaper and sealed envelope. Handing the owl a piece of bacon in payment before the beautiful owl flew off again, Harry reached for the letter first.

Recognizing the hand-writing on the letter, Harry tore it open to see the flowing script of Lily Potter, his mother. It read:

* * *

  _Dear Harry,_

_Good luck on your exams today! If you’re anything like me then you are probably feeling nervous right now. Don’t worry dear, I’m sure you’ll do fine! Just give it you’re all and I’m sure my baby boy will get an Outstanding on all his tests.  
_

_Just three more weeks until you’ll be home. I’m so excited! Make sure to write when exam are done and tell me how they went. Can’t wait to see my amazing son again!  
_

_Love, your mother,_

_Lily Potter_

* * *

 Blushing lightly at his mother’s confidence in him, Harry folded the letter away and mentally promised himself he would write her back soon. Padma Patil was still reading though her own letter, presumably from family, while Terry Boot munched away at the stack of cookies his family had apparently sent.

Lisa Turpin had not received any mail and was still busy reading her textbook. Harry briefly considered asking about that, but the girl sent him one of her cold glares before he could. Most out of a desire to avoid her piercing stare, Harry reached for the newspaper that came with the letter. The most recent issue of the Daily Prophet.

Pulling the paper between him and the eyes of Lisa Turpin, Harry was surprised by the headline that greeted him:

* * *

**HOGWARTS EMPLOYEE FACING AZKABAN**

_Questions continue to circulate regarding the mysteries circumstances surrounding the 28 th of May. A seemingly normal Hogwarts school day turned disastrous with the appearance of a dragon! While initial reports claimed the dragon may have migrated from a faraway Dragon Reserve new information says otherwise. _

_That same day veteran Ministry Auror James Potter made the arrest of one Rubeus Hagrid, the longtime Hogwarts Keeper of the Keys. The alleged charge? Dragon breeding. Details have yet to be released, but Mr. Hagrid faces a Wizengamot trial tomorrow evening with the threat of Azkaban present if he is found guilty._

_When Hogwart Headmaster Albus Dumbledore was asked about this, he had only this to say: “I have the utmost faith in Rubeus Hagrid.” He then confirmed that he would be speaking as a character witness at the coming trial._

* * *

“Wow!” muttered Harry quietly, having finished the article. He knew Hagrid was reckless and what he had done was illegal, but Azkaban? The wizarding prison said to not only be inescapable but also guarded by the dreaded Dementors?

“What is it, Potter?” asked Turpin, seeing his surprised look. After Harry passed her the paper, Turpin eyed it briefly before nodding in realization. “Understandable,” she said at length. “Dragon breeding is illegal; it’s been that way for years.”

“But Azkaban?” questioned Harry. “That seems a bit much.”

“Not really,” she disagreed. “Dragon breeding was made illegal because of the risk it possess to exposing the wizarding world. Dragons aren’t exactly easy to hide from Muggles, you know? If Hagrid’s dragon had made its way into a Muggle village it might have exposed us.”

“Still seems harsh,” sighed Harry, thinking back to all the horrible things he had heard his father say about the prison in the past.

“Okay with Muggles discovering us, then?” challenged Turpin.

“Of course not!” snapped Harry reflexively, only to blush when Turpin smirked at him in victory. Calming himself, he continued, “But Azkaban is still a terrible place. The Dementors there feed on your happy thoughts before eating your soul. That’s horrible!”

“That I won’t argue with,” said Turpin simply, a dark look passing through her eyes briefly.

“Why is it,” interrupted Terry Boot questioningly. “That you two are always talking about these heavy subject? Where’s your interest in the finer things in life? Like Quidditch!”

“Hell,” said Lisa Turpin immediately.

Shaking his head at both, Harry changed subjects: “Maybe we should focus on exams? They are today.” When everyone nodded to that, he asked, “Anyone know what our first subject is?”

“Astronomy,” answered Padma Patil.

“What!” shouted Boot in panic. “I thought it was Charms!”

“That’s later today,” said Patil.

“But I forgot to study for that!” he cried. Groaning loudly as he clutched his head, he muttered, “I’m already seeing stars…”

Turpin and Harry shared a laugh at his distress, the latter pushing forward his notes on Astronomy with a smile. They had more immediate concerns than Azkaban, after all.

* * *

The first year written exams were all being held in one of the larger classrooms in the castle.

Ravenclaw house was among the first to arrive, each student filing into the room one at a time. Harry walked in behind Turpin, Patil, and had to practically drag Boot in behind him, but the four quickly separated as they claimed their own seats around the room.

Harry chose a seat near the front, setting down his few things beside his seat before sitting down to wait. Gryffindor was surprisingly the next house to arrive and it was no surprise Hermione Granger was at the head of the line. The muggle-born girl seemed to have recovered from the other night and looked focus and ready.

Harry met her eyes from across the room, but Granger quickly turned away and took a seat near the back while Neville Longbottom claimed the seat in front of her. Rolling his eyes at the both of them, Harry stared forward trying to think back on everything they had actually covered in Astronomy.

After only another few minutes of waiting, astronomy Professor Aurora Sinistra led beat the last two houses, Hufflepuff and Slytherin, by only about five minutes. The dark skinned witch waited until everyone was seated before raising her wand; with a short flick a number of boxes flew up from the back of the room and began floating around the room.

“Each of you,” began Professor Sinistra. “Must take one quill from the box.” When the box reached him, Harry pulled out the first one he could reach before the box continued on. “These quill have been charmed by our very own Headmaster with an Anti-Cheating Spell. Anyone caught attempting to cheat will receive an immediate Troll grade for that subject and be asked to leave.”

When everyone sat nervously clutching their new quill, she sent the boxes away before papers began flooding into the room. “There will be no practical for Astronomy,” she said, causing a rush of relief for many. “Your full score will come from this test.”

A couple pieces of paper dropped themselves on the table in front of Harry; each already signed with his full name. “You will have three hours to complete this examination,” explained Professor Aurora Sinistra. “When you are finished turn your paper up-side down and you may go.”

Surveying the room and seeing a group of anxious students staring at her, she added, “Remember your lessons and you should do fine. Hopefully I will see you all in your second year!” She received awkward smiles in return. “Begin!”

Astronomy had never been one of Harry’s favorite subjects, but he answered the questions easily enough. The multiple choice questions mostly related to the names of certain star clusters and the names of the planets. Towards the end he had to fill in a diagram on planet rotation patterns at particular times of the year.

After only about an hour and a half, Harry set his quill down. Looking over his answered carefully, his nodded in satisfaction and turned his paper over. Picking up his things, he rose from his seat. Professor Sinistra smiled at him before waving her wand towards him and summoning the papers to her.

Looking around, Harry realized he was among the first to finish because only a few seats were empty. Terry Boot was busy staring at his paper blankly, clearly lost, but Padma Patil was writing away in ease. Hermione Granger was working furiously on her paper and Longbottom seemed somewhere in between Boot and Patil’s level of acceptance.

Surprisingly Lisa Turpin was nowhere to be seen. Curious Harry made his way from the door and did not notice how stressed he felt when he stepped outside the room and into the hall. The cold breeze drifting through the hall told him how hot he must have been inside.

Sighing in relief, Harry stretched widely. “That’s one done with,” he said happily.

“Already exhausted?” challenged Lisa Turpin. The girl was currently leaning against the wall opposite the door.

“Not in the slightest,” denied Harry. “Just relieved. How about you? Finishing so early?”

“Only a few minutes before you,” she explained. “Astronomy is easy. You just remember a few facts.”

“The charts were annoying,” shrugged Harry. “No sense waiting on Boot and Patil; they should still be a few. What exam is next again?”

“Charms,” she said. “And it will be a practical this time.”

“Now that should be much better,” smiled Harry.

They spent the few hours they had before their Charms test reviewing their notes on the subject. When it finally came time for the appointed test time, however, they were met with a surprise.

“What is this line for?” wondered Harry. The hall outside of Flitwick’s classroom was crowded with first years lined up on either side.

Surprisingly he actually received an answered. Pushing himself off the wall he was leaning against, Blaise Zabini of Slytherin said, “Flitwick is only taking one student at a time.”

“So expect a long wait,” scoffed Turpin from Harry’s side. Zabini only shrugged in response before pulling out a book; a wizarding novel, not a textbook. Taking their places at the end of the line, Harry Potter and Lisa Turpin went back to studying for their Charms test, but after thirty minutes of waiting switched to other classes.

When it was finally his turn, Harry stepped inside of Filius Flitwick’s classroom with ease. The short head of Ravenclaw was not atop of stack of books, however, and was instead just standing near the front with a smile.

“Welcome, Harry,” he squeaked upon seeing him. “I trust you’re ready?”

“I am, sir,” said Harry confidently.

“Good, good,” muttered Professor Flitwick. Gesturing towards the end of the table beside him, the charms master was pointing towards a pineapple of all things. “Your task is simple: making this pineapple dance from one end of the table to the other. Points for ease of effort, style, the complexity of the dance, and whether the pineapple is damaged afterwards.”

Blinkingly in surprise, Harry nodded regardless. “Ready, sir,” he said and Flitwick only smiled wider. Withdrawing his Blackthorn and Ash wand, Harry leveled the crooked tip at the pineapple.

The Dancing Feet Spell was the obvious choice here, but if was not careful… “ _Tarantallegra!_ ” whispered Harry, seemingly to Flitwick’s surprise. The pineapple seemed to jump for a moment in response before the spell took effect. It did indeed dance across the table, its rotund body moving in a motion Harry thought looked similar to a tap dance.

When it neared the end, Harry released his focus from the pineapple before casting the counter spell. At once it stopped, sitting motionless by the edge of the table.

Professor Flitwick looked happy, nodding and smiling as he said, “Well done, Harry! Surprising use of spell-work, but job well done!”

“Thank you, sir,” smiled Harry blushing. “Is there anything else?”

“No, that will be all,” squeaked Flitwick. “Go on, go on! Enjoy the rest of your day! Exams continue tomorrow.”

Bidding his head of house farewell, Harry left the older man feeling much later. One day of exams done, three more to go! Waving Lisa Turpin in as he stepped out, Harry said, “Good luck! See you at dinner.”

She, of course, merely rolled her eyes at him.

* * *

The evening feast was a much more relaxed time than its morning counter-part. With two exams finished, everyone seemed to be breathing a little easier. Everyone except…

“I’m going to fail!” whined Terry Boot, his head face-down in the table.

“Probably,” said Lisa Turpin blandly.

“Lisa!” scolded Padma Patil. Turpin ignored her.

“You are going to be fine,” said Harry as he awkwardly pat the other boy’s shoulder.

“No I’m not!” he insisted. “I couldn’t remember half those Astronomy questions and then my pineapple fell off the table. Really, a dancing pineapple? What’s the point of that!?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” said Harry. “Some people did not even get their pineapple to move.”

“And half those Astronomy questions is at least worth a Passable grade,” offered Patil.

There were a few scattered cases the like Boot’s across all four houses, but their plight did not seemed to distract from everything. Harry thought it was probably just exam nerves overloading on most of them.

“We can just study extra hard for the next two exams tomorrow,” suggested Harry Potter. To Patil, he asked, “Which are?”

“Transfiguration and Defense,” she answered. “But only the former is a practical.”

“Defense is easy enough, but Transfiguration you will need some help on,” thought Harry aloud.

“But you will?” asked Boot hopefully.

“Sure,” he sighed in defeat. When Boot cheered in response, Harry knew he had just agreed to teach the other boy the entire years’ worth of Transfiguration work in one night. When Patil, Corner, and a reluctant Turpin also agreed to help he knew it could be done, though.

* * *

The group of five managed to cover most of Transfigurations curriculum and a good portion of Defense Against the Dark Arts, too. When they finally called it a night, even Terry Boot seemed confident. Sadly it was a confidence that lasted until they and every other house was standing outside Professor McGonagall’s classroom the following day.

“I’m going to fail,” said Terry Boot nervously; his skin seemed pale now, too.

“Really?” asked an annoyed Michael Corner. “We spent all night studying.”

“But what if I fail!?” cried Boot frantically.

“I hear Hogwarts might be needing a new Grounds Keeper soon,” suggested Lisa Turpin from behind him. “Might consider that.” Boot looked even more nervous now.

“Lisa!” shouted Padma Patil, looking up from her Transfiguration notes. Turpin rolled her eyes and ignored her again.

“Can we please just focus?” asked Harry.

Professor McGonagall opened the doors to her classroom a moment later and ushered in the assembled group of students from every house. The moderately sized classroom seemed to have been expanded as the entire first year group.

“Take your seats quickly,” said McGonagall loudly to the crowd. When everyone did, she continued, “You should have a mouse already on your desks.”

Harry eyed the unconscious rodent asleep on his desk with suspicion. He had really been hoping they would not have to— “Your work,” the professor explained. “Is to turn the provided mouse into a decorative snuffbox. Points will be awarded based on how attractive or unique the design of the box is and taken away for every whisker or other such additions present.”

Harry poked the mouse gently in the stomach, but when it failed to stir he resigned himself to his work. Removing his wand, he began the tedious process of carefully turning the mouse into a box. He likely could have done it quickly, but was careful with his technique and moved his wand through the practiced motions.

After nearly ten minutes the brown mouse was now a bright green box with bronze trimmings and an almost glossy sheen to its look. Calling over the professor to view his work, Harry sat back in anticipation of her regard.

Professor McGonagall eyed the box critically, picking it up and turning it around in hand, before placing it back on the desk. “More than adequate,” she pronounced, forcing a sigh of relief from Harry. “Excellent work, Mr. Potter. You may go.”

“Would you like me to turn it back, professor?” he asked.

“Can you?” she seemed surprised. “Please, show me.”

Nodding, Harry pointed his wand at the box. “ _Reparifarge!_ ” he said and in a flash of light the green turned to brown once more. The mouse was still unconscious; alive, but still asleep.

“Very well done, Mr. Potter,” she praised again before waving him out of the room.

Their second and last examination of the day was Defense Against the Dark Arts which meant it was back to the cramped and heated classroom. Professor Quirrell was already there placing a couple pieces of paper and the Anti-Cheating Quills on each desk.

“Good afternoon, sir,” greeted Harry as he claimed his seat.

“G-good day t-to you, M-mr. Pot-tter,” he replied before moving along. Harry watched him go in concern. The older man seemed to have recovered from his previous illness, but still looked rather pale.

When everyone was seated, however, those thoughts left him and it was back to test taking. Professor Quirrell had opted out of giving them a practical and instead went with the normal written test formula. Unlike the Astronomy test they had already taken, the Defense test was far more varied.

They were almost all multiple choice questions, but the subjects varied drastically. One question would ask about werewolf bites and the next would ask what the incantation for the Wand-Lighting Charm was. Spell names, Doxies, Gargoyles, and even a few vampire questions; the list went on.

It took Harry almost a full two hours to answer them all and he was still amongst the first to finish. When he finally let go of the quill, it was with sore fingers and a relieved sigh. Fortunately he felt confident in this test and only spent a few moment go over his answers.

When he was finally satisfied with everything, he stood up and brought the papers to the professor. Quirrell was sitting up straight, staring out at the class with a blank expression and glassy eyes. When Harry dropped the papers on his desk he seemed to snap out of it and met the emerald eyes of his student evenly.

“F-finished so soon, Mr. P-potter?” he stuttered.

“I am, sir,” he answered politely. “But now my head hurts.” Harry laughed easily, but could feel the sudden throbbing coming from his head. All that struggling to remember for the test must have given him a headache.

“D-do try and g-get some r-rest,” suggested Quirrell. Harry was prepared to take that advice when the older man leaned forward and added, “Meet me in my office before going to the feast. There’s something we need to discuss.”

Harry blinked in surprise, but Quirrell only pulled back and said, “G-good luck in the f-future, M-mr. Potter-r.”

* * *

Professor Quirrell’s instructions on his mind, Harry decided to forgo waiting for the others to finish, but just as he decided to make his way towards Quirrell’s office, Lisa Turpin emerged from the classroom.

“Potter,” she greeted him in monotone, shutting the door behind her.

“Turpin,” he replied, matching her empty tone. More relaxed, he asked, “How was it for you?”

“Time consuming,” she said at length. “And there were far too many werewolf questions. Now let’s go to the feast.” She started down the hall with Harry following her down the stairs. “If I have to listen to Boot complain again before getting some food I might hex him.”

“Go on ahead,” laughed Harry. “Get your fill. I need to make a stop before the feast.”

Her calculating eyes searched him for a moment, but after only for a second because she shrugged. “Whatever you say,” she said dismissively and walked away.

Watching her go briefly, Harry shook his head at the strange girl before getting off the stairs a floor earlier than her. Professor Quirrell’s office was situation not from the stair-well so Harry found himself standing in front of the office door within moments. With Quirrell still administering tests upstairs, Harry pushed on the door and smiled when it opened for him.

Stepping inside, Harry looked around the nervous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s office space in curiosity. The first thing to catch his eye was the assort styles of African tribal looking masks adorning the walls and a pile of Arabian looking pillows against the corner. The was also a telescope set beside the window, but Harry’s Ravenclaw sorted mind brought him to the professor’s book-shelf opposite of the pile of pillows.

The shelf contained mostly curriculum books and a few more common books on magical theory; certainly nothing like the Rookwood book he had loaned Harry. “Really should read more of that,” he muttered at the reminder, but the Dark Arts were not covered at Hogwarts, magical theory was not until later years, and exams had taken up a lot of his recent free time.

Just as he started examining the odd looking skulls the professor was using a book-ends, though, the door to the office opened once more. Quirinus Quirrell walked into his office carrying a tall stack of papers, no doubt the exams, and set the down on his task the moment it was within reach.

Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his head, Quirrell sighed in relief. “Glad that’s done with,” he said, sounding almost happy.

“After you grade them, of course,” said Harry jokingly.

Professor Quirrell seemed to jump at the sound of his voice and turned to see him with a look bordering on surprise. Almost like he forgot Harry was there. “Mr. Potter,” he greeted with a nod of his turban wearing head. “Glad you could made it so soon.”

“No trouble, sir,” smiled Harry. “But what was it you needed?”

Quirrell face darkened at the question and Harry could see how when he crossed his arms he was clenching his thin fingers on the purple velvet of his robes. “Something serious, I’m afraid,” he began hoarsely. “Something regarding the stone.”

Harry felt the room go cold with that single word; like merely speaking it meant something a whole lot more than what it meant. “I see,” he said in reply, even though he did not really. “What about it, sir?”

Quirrell released the edges of his robes, took a deep calming breathe, and began, “You know already that the Headmaster is trying to protect it and you also know some-one is trying to steal it.”

“I do,” nodded Harry.

“Nearly every professor in this castle as offered some sort of protection for it,” continued Quirrell. “Myself included, but Professor Dumbledore has expressed his concerns that the thief may be one of those same professors.”

Not liking were this was going, Harry swallowed deeply. “Which means…”

“The stone is in grave danger,” finished Quirrell looking especially pale now. “Normally this would not mean much, as not a single wizard or witch alive would dare attempt to steal from Hogwarts with the Headmaster present, but…”

In the flurry of exams he had passed it off as nothing, but Harry knew what the man before him was saying, “The Headmaster has been called away.”

“Precisely,” sighed Quirrell. “Recent events with Mr. Hagrid have forced the Headmaster to either resign Mr. Hagrid to a fate in Azkaban or leave the castle for his defense and take drastic measures to guard the stone because he fear the thief might strike while he was away.”

Knowing how terrible Azkaban was, Harry knew what the headmaster must have decided. “He chose to move the stone,” reasoned Harry. “At least until he could return.”

“Exactly,” said Quirrell proudly; Harry blushed because that pride seemed to be directed at him. “But if the thief is among the professors of this castle, it presents a problem. Who to trust?”

“He trusted you, right?” asked Harry hopefully.

“Thankfully, yes,” Quirrell seemed relieved. “I have been away for a year and the Headmaster reasoned the thief must have needed more time to infiltrate the caste than merely the start of term. Everyone else…”

“Has been here much longer,” said Harry with dread. “But what about Professor Snape? Or Flitwick? Even McGonagall?”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Quirrell sadly. “But as long as there is a chance they might be the thief I cannot risk it. The Headmaster gave me instructions to recover the stone and hide it somewhere safe until he could return, likely in the morning or late evening.”

“Makes sense,” thought Harry aloud. “But why tell me? What can I do? I can duel a little, but not enough to fight a professor!” Just the thought of facing Flitwick or even Aurora Sinistra scarred him.

“Rest easy,” assured Quirrell with comforting hand on the boy’s shoulders. “I don’t tell you this only to send you to your certain death in a pointless duel.”

“Right, of course not,” said Harry in relief. More confidently, he asked, “What can I do to help?”

“As I said before each professor has provided their own protection for the stone,” Quirrell seemed more confident than Harry had ever seen him, his mind calculating and taking charge. “I can handle all but one: Professor Dumbledore.”

“I can help with that?” said Harry astounded. “How?”

“The Headmaster told me how to overcome his protection, but it requires a student to do so,” explained Quirrell. At Harry’s surprised look, he laughed and explained, “His personal bit of genius since a thief is unlikely to bring a student along with him.”

“I guess that makes sense,” said Harry doubtfully. “But when do we do this?”

“Now,” said Quirrell shortly. “The sooner the better. While the students are at the feast it will present a perfect opportunity to move for the stone.”

Harry clutched at the wand his pocket to steady his nerves. “I’m ready, sir!” he said as confidently as he could manage.

“Quickly, then,” urged the professor. “We’ve no time to waste.”

Without another word, Quirinus Quirrell pushed his way out of the office with a sense of confident purpose, Harry only a step behind. The later hour meant the halls were almost completely empty save for a few stragglers still making their way down for the evening feast. Neither Harry nor Quirrell spared them a thought, both focused solely on their mission.

It did not take long for them to find themselves stand outside their destination: the third floor corridor’s forbidden door.

“Ready yourself, Harry,” said Quirrell before pushing open the door with ease. The moment of the seal of the door was broken, Harry was assaulted by a scent he could only call wet dog. Harry followed the menacing growling sounds down the long corridor before them until he was craning his neck up to see the three head monster. Standing almost flush with the ceiling was a three headed Cerberus dog. Three sets of piercing eyes looked down on the two, man and boy, with equal amounts of disdain and desire to eat.

“P-professor,” stuttered Haryr for once, not sure what he should and fighting his first instinct to run.

Quirrell did not seem bothered, though, and pulled out is wand calmly. Without a word he danced his wand through the air and not even seconds later a beautiful golden harp appeared at the foot of the beast. A soft and lilting melody filled the air and Harry watched in awe as the three headed monster not only calmed, but dropped down and went to sleep!

“How did you—“ began Harry in a whisper, afraid he might wake it.

“Hagrid’s protection,” explained Quirrell evenly. “But he said it could be tamed with simple music.”

It was Hagrid’s monster. Of course it was. Shaking his head of that stupid fact, Harry asked, “But couldn’t the thief have just killed it? A simple Killing Curse and the job would be done.”

“All magic, but especially dark magic, leaves traces,” said Quirrell as he started towards the beast, Harry following cautiously. “Those traces are easy to detect if you know how and Hogwarts knows how. The moment any bit of dark magic is used not only would the Professor Dumbledore be informed, but so would many of the senior staff members.”

“Like McGonagall, Flitwick, and Snape?” asked Harry needlessly. “That’s impressive.”

“Useful to know if you ever get to your practical sections in Rookwood’s book,” smirked Quirrell. “But the traces need to be placed in specific areas and maintained yearly to work. You may think Professor Bathsheda Babbling for that bit of protection here.”

“Who?”

“The teacher for the Study of Ancient Runes, an elective class available in your third year,” answered Quirrell, bending down to pull open the trap-door the beast had apparently been guarding.

A loud whistling met the professor’s efforts as a strong torrent of air greeted them. Looking down, Harry could only see blackness. “How far down does this go?”

“A fair distance,” said Quirrell. “And with no way to climb down.” The professor frowned for a moment before aiming his wand down the hole.

“Wait,” interrupted Harry. “I can do this one.” Harry withdrew his own wand and aimed it down the dark hole. “ _Lumos Solem!_ ” he chanted and a sharp beam of pure light shot down the hole, a mumbled screech resounding up in response as the darkness seemed to pull back to reveal the stone floor below.

“Sprout’s protection,” muttered Quirrell. “Devil’s Snare. It’s a plant that--”

“Can’t stand any sort of light,” finished Harry, earning a smile from Quirrell. “It looks close enough we could just jump down.”

“With some light,” agreed Quirrell. Both professor and student lit their wands before jumping down in the hole. Quirrell landed easily with no noticeable sign of effort.

Harry, though—“Ouch!” he winced, feeling the shock shooting up his legs. At Quirrell’s look, he added, “I’m fine, sir. Let’s go.”

The two descended further under the castle, following a stone passageway deeper down. As they moved Harry strained for any sort of noise and could only hear a faint dripping noise. That and a sort of fluttering sound. When they reached the end, Harry saw why.

The room they found themselves in had a high ceiling and occupying the entirety of that space was what appeared to be thousands of shiny little birds. On ground level there was a thick wooden door with a silver lock on it. More ridiculously was the presence of two brook-sticks resting against the wall by the door.

“I’m going to go ahead and guess the door is locked and a simple Unlocking Charm isn’t going to be enough,” remarked Harry dryly.

“Likely so,” agreed Quirrell, his eyes moving from bird to bird. Harry joined him and actually had to double check when he noticed they were not birds.

“They’re keys!” he gasped in surprise. Looking from the hundreds of keys, to the door, to the brooms, he figured it out. “We’re supposed to use the brooms to catch the right key and unlock the door with that? Why? Why even provide the brooms? Who came up with this?”

“Flitwick,” said Quirrell stiffly. The man then aimed his wand at one of the keys and called out, “ _Accio_ silver key!” Using the Summoning Charm, Quirrell pulled one of the keys towards him. Snatching it out of the air, Quirrell eyed it careful. “This should be it; it has the same design as the deadbolt on the door.”

“Am I the only one surprised a simple Summoning Charm worked?” asked Harry. Quirrell shrugged lightly, but made no reply as he moved to unlocking the door. When the click of the door sounded he tossed the key over his shoulder; the bird-key fluttered away on damaged wings. Seizing the door, Quirrell pulled it open in a single tug.

No long corridor this time as the door opened up into a dark room. Just as Harry was weighing the possibility of more Devil’s Snare, the torches on the side of the room began lighting up to reveal a massive chess board with an army of white chess pieces blocking their way.

“Great, chess,” said Harry sadly, never regretting more it lack of skill with the game. He never did manage to beat Goldstein. “Any idea how to get through this one, sir?”

In response Quirrell flicked his wand forwards, the tip aglow in fire. A blasting curse of some kind shot forward and crashed into the white king piece and the resulting explosion tore the white marbled figure apart. Just as Harry was about to congratulate him, however, the scattered remained the king piece seemed to pull themselves back together until the white king stood proud and whole once more.

“McGonagall,” realized Quirrell. “She must have transfigured these pieces from something and they are somehow repaired if destroyed.”

“This might be a bad time to mention I am terrible at chess,” remarked Harry.

“I am passable,” muttered Quirrell, but he did not step closer to the board. “If I can undo the magic that repairs the pieces…” Quirrell began prodding each piece with his wand, then the walls, then the columns, and so on until he had inspected every inch of the room.

Harry watched him work in silence, wondering what the man had planned, until Quirrell finally came to a stop. Waving his wand over a spot off to the side of the black and white checkered board, Quirrell seemed in his element as his cast nearly a dozen spells with seconds and try as he might, first year Harry Potter was completely lost.

“Sir,” asked Harry hesitantly. “Did you find something?”

“It seems McGonagall was not alone during the design of this protection,” answered Quirrell triumphantly. “McGonagall was the one to transfigure the board and pieces, but it seems Aurora Sinistra is responsible for the enchantments.”

“The astronomy teacher?” Harry was surprised. “How?”

“Astronomy at its core is the study of patterns and their effect on magic,” explained Quirrell, another dozen spells spewing from his wand as he spoke. “These small etchings here in the board are in the shape of constellations. Sinistra used these established patterns to form the enchantment that contains the victory condition for McGonagall’s little game.”

“The victory condition?” asked Harry confused.

“The only real one in chess,” smirked Quirrell. With a final wave of the man’s wand, each and every white piece bowed down in defeat; even more impressive was how the white king piece dropped to his knees. “Is the defeat of the king.”

Quirrell stood in victory, making his way past the kneeling army of white marble with Harry following behind in amazement. Not even a second after Harry stepped off the board, however, the white army rose once more. Looking back in surprise, Harry wondered why.

“I only forced the victory condition,” explained Quirrell without looking back. “It would have taken hours to actually dismantle Sinistra’s charm. No surprise it repaired itself.”

Nodding in bemused understanding, Harry followed after the man who was quickly becoming one of his favorite wizards of all time. As they moved down the passageway to their next trail, Harry counted off on his fingers: “We’ve already finished Hagrid’s, Sinistra’s, McGonagall’s, Flitwick’s, and Sprount’s. We should only have your’s, Snape’s, and then Dumbledore’s left.”

“Mine should be next,” announced Quirrell when they came to a rusted metal door with dents in it. When Quirrell pushed it open, a rancid smell issued forth like a poisonous gas. Reaching to cover his nose reflexively and blinking through watering eyes, Harry coughed as they made their way inside.

All thoughts of the smell died when he felt the thud of movement shake the floor beneath him and Harry caught sight of what awaited them next: a troll. Another thrice Merlin cursed troll! This one stood more than a head taller than the one back in October and held a club nearly twice the size of the former, too.

“The troll in October was one of mine,” admitted Quirrell. “But it escaped before I could bring it here.”

Harry wanted to say something, to complain or accuse, but the growling of an angry troll strangled the words from his throat. The angry monster began shouting and whirling around its weapon, trying and succeeding to terrify Harry. Quirrell, however, remained unmovable.

When the troll finally got tired of waiting for them to run, it charged forward ready to crush them. Harry was half-way through the door when he noticed what the man beside him was doing. Quirinus Quirrell raised his wand at his side, grasping it tightly, before sweeping it across his chest with a strong and quick motion reminiscent of a wide punch.

In tandem with the professor’s movements, the troll seemed to stop sudden before its neck began to twist. A second latter its head flew to the side and with a sickening crunch the beast’s neck snapped completely around. When the beat fell it was belly first, but its face stared straight up into the ceiling with dead eyes.

Harry watched the troll die with the detached sort of satisfaction that came from surviving a deadly situation, the reality of it not really hitting fully. “Th-thank you, sir,” said Harry distractedly.

“I never intended for either of these trolls to hurt one of my students,” said Quirrell solemnly. Without another word he started his way towards the door on the opposite end of the expansive room, Harry following hesitantly behind him.

Closing the door behind them as they stepped in the next room, Harry jumped in surprise when the doorways on either end of the room were encircled by purple fire. Looking around he also saw a single table sitting in the middle of the room with a collection of various sized vials lined up evenly on the table. Quirrell eyed the vials shortly before stepping forward to take hold of the piece of Muggle paper also resting on the table.

The defense professor read the contents quickly before passing it onto Harry, who read them it almost as quickly. “Looks like a riddle,” said Harry immediately. “And that one of these vials will let us move forward, a couple will kill us, and one will send us to the beginning. This must be--”

“Snape’s protection,” nodded Quirrell, cupping his chin in thought as he looked over the line of vials.

Read the instruction a couple more times, Harry smiled at last. “Nice to see that door knocker was actually useful,” he muttered to himself. More loudly, he said, “The one we need is the smallest one.”

“Ravenclaw deduction,” smiled Quirrell. “I came to the same conclusion.”

“Must be right, then,” laughed Harry easily.

Quirrell sipped from the bottle first before passing it to Harry who did the same. Harry felt the icy cold liquid move down his throat and only hesitated for a moment as he followed Quirrell through the now black colored flames and into the final room. To where the Philosopher’s Stone was hidden.

But when they were finally there, Haryr found himself very disappointed. Compared to the last few rooms, this one seemed so tame. It was an admittedly large circular shaped room with a single mirror standing tall in the middle. “I don’t understand,” wondered Harry confused. “Where’s the stone?”

“Albus Dumbledore’s protection,” answered Quirrell, gesturing towards the mirror. “The last step.”

“The mirror?”

The massive black framed mirror loomed several feet over even Quirrell and the sheen of reflective surface caught the dim light around the room and shined it back at him. Etched at the top, a small slanted writing, were the words: _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_.

“What?” muttered Harry, completely lost. He was about to ask Quirrell what this was when he noticed movement from within the mirror. Looking down and deeply it the pane of glass, Harry was amazed to see… himself!

But he was older, already graduated from Hogwarts it seemed. He stood tall and proud with a confident smirk on his face as he stood behind a podium. Hundreds if not thousands of witches and wizards were applauding him as he held up his Order of Merlin, First Class. His mother was weeping in joy while his dad and uncles looked on happy and proud. His whole family was there, happy and proud, to see him.

“What is this?” wondered Harry breathless. “Does this show the future?”

“This is the Mirror of Erised,” explained Quirrell. “And it shows what you desire most.”

“What I desire?” blinked Harry in surprise. He turned back to see everyone smiling happily at him and nodded in acceptance. Yeah, that was fine. Who did not want their whole family happy and proud of them?

“But it’s nothing more than a fantasy,” dismissed Quirrell. “It doesn’t show you the future, only what you want it to be. Reality is rarely so kind.”

“So this is Dumbledore’s protection,” sighed Harry. “To demoralize anyone who comes searching for the stone?”

“Not quite,” the older man corrected. “The Headmaster merely sealed the stone away within the mirror.”

“Sealed? But how do we get it out?”

“Trying searching for it,” instructed Quirrell gently.

Nodding, Harry tried to ignore the happy family and instead tried to find the Philosopher’s Stone somewhere in the image. He had read once that it was like a blood red stone, so… There! The older Harry in the mirror smiled at him knowingly, the Order of Merlin in his hand replaced by a shiny red stone that he then tucked into his pocket just as Harry felt a sudden weight fall into his own pocket.

“Can you see it?” asked Quirrell urgently now. “Was it there?”

“I-- I think so, yeah,” he muttered distractedly, his fingers reaching into his pocket. They had done it!

“Stop right there!” shouted Neville Longbottom suddenly as he ran into the room.

“Longbottom?” question Harry. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to stop Quirrell from stealing the stone!” he answered. “The real question is what you are doing with him!”

“I told you already,” said Harry through gritted teeth. “Professor Quirrell is not—“

“How can you be so stupid!” shouted Longbottom. “He’s manipulating you!”

“And you’re delusional!” shouted Harry back. “We came here to save the stone! Dumbldore said—“

“Enough of this!” growled Quirrell. With a sharp flick of his wand, both Harry and Longbottom found themselves bound by conjured robes. “There is only so much time before Dumbledore returns and I will not have you two stall be any longer!”

“What?” gasped Harry horrified.

“I knew it was you!” Longbottom sounded triumphant.

“Yes, boy,” mocked Quirrell. “You were very clever. You and your little muggle-born pet have been a continued nuisance all year. I had hoped, even if you survived, my warning with the Devil Snare would deter you.”

“What!?” shouted Harry.

Quirrell and Longbottom ignored him, the latter actually smiling. “So it was you,” he seemed relieved. “I was worried you might have a partner, like Snape.”

“Oh, Severus?” scoffed Quirrell. “He’s been following me around nearly as much as you. Thanks to Mr. Potter, however, I was able to evade his more meddlesome attempts to delay me.”

When Longbottom sent an accusatory look his way, Harry snapped, “I didn’t do anything!”

“Didn’t you?” smirked Quirrell. “Earlier in the year you were the one who told me where the secret passageways were on the second and third floors. Using them I was able to sneak around Severus and Longbottom’s attempts to uncover my plans.”

When Quirrell had first found him practicing, realized Harry! “B-but I  didn’t…” scrambled Harry. “Why would that even matter?”

“You were missing one person when you were counting off the professors who were helping to protect the stone,” admitted Quirrel.

“Who? What? Why does that matter?” demanded Harry.

“Septima Vector, Hogwarts’ esteemed Arithmancy instructor,” declared Quirrell proudly. “Hagrid mutt wasn’t the first protection; she was! She had encoded the mongrel’s door in dozens of complicated runes and enchantments. One reckless tap and every teacher in the castle would have known. It took me months just to get through that alone and unraveling arithmanctic barriers takes precise work. If I hadn’t been able to get away quickly, Snape would have surely discovered me. Thank you, Mr. Potter!”

“So it was you!” snapped a now enraged Harry. “You were trying to get the stone all year. It was you who almost killed me with that troll!”

“So quick to assume,” laughed Quirrell. “I’m afraid, little Harry, that was your doing. I hide away that troll in one of the classrooms and set a simple spell to release the beast when I had need of it. You just so happened to be there studying…”

“You were the one to suggest that classroom,” realized Harry, dread filling his stomach. “So that I would release the troll as your distraction.”

“Now you’re learning,” smiled Quirrell cruelly. “Ten points to Ravenclaw.”

“So you’ve just been manipulating me this whole year?” cringed Harry. If he felt tears coming, he must have willed them not to fall. “How? You always knew what to say…”

“You’re not familiar,” began Quirrell. “With the mind arts are you? One of these arts is that of Legilimency. Difficult to control, but effective at reading the surface thoughts of anyone even with an amateur’s skill level.”

“You were reading my mind?”

“In the simplest of terms, yes,” said Quirrell easily. “My skill with the art is poor, however. No doubt you remember all those mysterious head pains when we were together? The side effect of an unskilled Legilimens.”

“So it was all a lie,” said Harry weakly. “Those stories, your advice, and even— Why bring me down here, anyway?“

“Ah, yes,” sighed Quirrell happily. “During the winter break I was using the student free time to prepare for tonight when I happened across this wonder find.” He gestured with open palms to the Mirror of Erised. “I knew for such a rare artifact to be brought to the caste the same time as the stone, Dumbledore must have been planning to use it to protect the stone. Since the Mirror is about showing you your desire, I suspect his plan must be related to that. If I could not pull the stone from the mirror, I hoped you could instead.”

“I won’t let you get away with the stone,” said Longbottom confidently. “Professor Dumbledore will stop you!”

“Dumbledore’s not here now, boy!” hissed Quirrell. “You can thank Potter for that, too. Although I couldn’t have planned for that either.” Fixing Harry with a cold glare, he added, “You did well driving that old man from this school, but when we met in the forest I had not expected you to actually strike me.” He lifted his turban up slightly to reveal a healing gash across his forehead.

“I wish I had hit you with something stronger,” growled Harry.

“Maybe in another life,” scoffed Quirrell. “But let’s not forget why we are all here.” The man reached forward and pulled Longbottom up by his bindings. “If Mr. Potter couldn’t get the stone, maybe you can.” He then dragged the boy before the mirror. “What do you see!?”

“You,” snapped Longbottom bravely. “Rotting in Azkaban.”

With Quirrell’s eyes off him, Harry tried to free himself from his bindings, but for all his efforts the ropes only burned into his wrist. Changing tactics, he tried to wiggle his fingers around under the ropes until he could feel the tip of his wand light touching his finger-tips. Smiling in relief, Harry whispered, “ _Diffindo…_ ”

The Severing Charm peeled through the ropes with ease, freeing Harry’s wand arm and allowing him to fully withdraw his wand. Repeating the process as quietly as he could on the rest of the rope, it took only a few seconds before Harry managed to rise to his feet, wand in hand and aimed at Quirrell.

“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t notice, did you?” asked Quirrell, turning to meet his eyes. Longbottom bounced around in place at his side. “What next, Harry? Going to try and kill me?”

“I thought about it,” admitted Harry. “But I don’t think I’d get that lucky.”

“Then what?”

“Why’d you give me that black book?” asked Harry instead of answering. “You didn’t need to if this was all about manipulating me.”

“It bought your trust,” said Quirrell simply. “The best way to blind a Ravenclaw is with a book.”

“Maybe so, but you really shouldn’t have given it to me,” Harry told him. “It taught me a lot about magic; knowledge I can use to beat you here.”

“That book doesn’t teach spells,” spat Quirrell. “And no amount of theory will save you.”

“You’re wrong,” said Harry. “It ‘teaches few spells.’ Your words. So I’ve learned a dark arts spell.”

“And I know dozens!” raged Quirrell. “Now what is your point.”

“You said it yourself before,” smirked Harry, ignoring the trembling he felt in his fingers. “Professor Babbling made enchantments that would alert every teacher if any dark magic was used down here.”

Harry could see the moment Quirrell realized what he was saying. “No,” he whispered. “You can’t!” Tossing Longbottom aside, Quirrell tried to raise his wand to—

But Harry was faster. His Blackthorn and Ash wand ready, Harry channeled his rage and shouted, “ _Repurgare!_ ” The dark scalping curse fired from Harry wand it a burst of bright crimson, barreling towards the disguised professor. Quirrell jumped to the side, but Harry did not stop.

“Diffindo!” he shouted, aiming for Longbottom’s binding before releasing a torrent of fire on Quirrell thanks to the Fire Making Charm.

Quirrell batted the fire away with ease, but he was angry. “That won’t be enough to stop me! You can’t stop me! I will have the stone for my master!” His wand in hand, Quirrell’s eyes glowed murderously as he lifted his wand, “ _Avada_ —“ Before he could finish, however, Longbottom tackled his and knocked him over.

Quirrell screamed in pain with the contact, jumping back and shoving Longbottom away as his wand fell to the ground. The sleeve of his purple robes burned away to revealing blistering skin and that looked more like angry bleeding cysts.

Deciding to take advantage of the older man’s state, Harry readied his wand, a spell already on his lips, but did not have time to speak as with a wave of Quirrell’s other hand he was thrown back violently. The small frame of Harry James Potter shot through the air and crashed against the stall wall behind him.

He was unconscious before his body hit the ground

* * *

It was only with the grace of repeated familiarity that Harry recognized the bright ceiling above him that of the Hogwarts infirmary. “Not dead,” he said groggily. “That’s a good sign.”

“That remains to be seen,” drawled the familiar acidic tones of Severus Snape. Harry was proven corrected when he turned to see the hooked nose man sitting beside his bed once more. “We meet again in this room, Mr. Potter. I feel there as less extremes available to you if this was all a ruse to skip your remaining exams; one of which is mine.”

“I would never do that, sir,” sighed Harry, the ease of familiar conversation calming him. “And I don’t intend to miss my exams tomorrow.”

“Yesterday, Mr. Potter,” corrected Snape. “Exams ended yesterday.”

“Oh,” groaned Harry. So he had been asleep for over two days. “Any chance of a retake, sir?”

“If it were up to me you would be receiving a Troll grade on all your missed examinations,” growled Snape unhappily. “But the Headmaster insists you be allowed to take them once you’ve recovered.”

“That’s good at least,” muttered Harry to himself. To Snape, he asked, “What happened down there, sir?”

“Precious little we can confirm,” admitted Snape. “As Mr. Longbottom and Ms. Granger are not yet fully recovered. Although the latter is awake.”

“Granger, too?” He had not even known she was there.

“She ran afoul of a chess board,” said Snape disdainfully. “But she does not concern me. You do. Explain.”

So Harry did, going over what little he could tell and essentially recounting his day from the moment he finished his Defense exam. When he finally finished, Severus Snape was looking at him like he was an idiot.

“You are a fool,” he pronounced. “To be so easily manipulated.” If Harry had any energy, he might have argue, but as it was he merely nodded in acceptance. He had been an idiot.

“Fortunately for you and Mr. Longbottom, your Scalping Curse did activate Babbling’s wards,” explained Snape. “And I was able to find you both.”

“Scalping Curse?” wondered Harry. “You know it?”

“I do,” he answered. “And I also know it requires a strong negative emotion to use effectively.”

“I was betrayed, sir,” said Harry, his eyes downcast. “Prof— I mean Quirrell was my mentor all year. He helped me. To find out he was doing all this to—“ He trailed off, not sure what to say.

“Betrayal is common,” said Snape easily and his words seemed to come from experience.

“What happened to him? Quirrell I mean,” asked Harry after a moment.

“Unknown. His severed arm was found – removed by his own wand -- but no body. It is presumed he escaped.”

“Were you able to recover the stone, sir? It was in my pocket when I—“

“It was found by Madam Pomfrey when you were brought here,” answered Snape. “From there it was given to Professor Dumbledore for safe-keeping.”

“So not a complete loss, then,” sighed Harry, feeling like he might have actually won something. Then a thought: “Sir, who was his master?” Snape eyed him coldly then, so he elaborated, “Quirrell said he had a master. Who is it?”

“Also unknown,” said Snape immediately. “Likely another thief after the power of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Harry doubted that, but was too tired to question it. “This has been a long year,” he said instead.

“But one that is almost over,” remarked Snape surprisingly.

* * *

When Harry recovered he actually was able to finish his exams, but the nervousness of test anxiety no longer frightened him in the slightest and he speed through each without much effort. His return to the Ravenclaw dormitories was met with cheers. While no-one knew the whole story, a missing teacher and three wounded students told enough story for most.

“Potter Power!” chanted Terry Boot upon his arrival, joined by many other boys in his year and up. Between Penelope Clearwater and Padma Patil, Harry felt like he was being crushed when they both decided to him hug and even Lisa Turpin looked like she was holding back from doing the same.

During breakfast and dinner Harry did not say anything to Granger, but the two shared an awkward nod. Harry still did not like her, but they were well beyond that this year. Maybe next one…

When Neville Longbottom finally woke up Harry actually did say something to him.

“Thank you,” he admitted reluctantly. “For everything that happened down there.”

“Yeah,” said Longbottom nervously. “Same to you.”

Harry tried to avoid getting to work up over much anything for the last couple days at Hogwarts. He decided instead to relax, a sentiment seemingly shared by Boot and Turpin and they lounged peacefully almost every day by the lake or in the castle courtyard. Boot spared a few tears when Slytheirn won the house cup for however many years in a row, but Harry did not care and enjoyed his free time happily.

When exam results finally came Harry opened his calmly and smiled happily. He had received top marks in both Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts – Dumbledore had apparently graded them with Quirrell absent – and an Exceeding Expectations on everything else except Astronomy where he received an Acceptable. He had apparently tied Hermione Granger for best of their year because she managed the same with high marks in Transfiguration and Charms.

Theodore Nott of Slytheirn managed the highest score for History of Magic, Neville Longbottom took the high mark in Herbology of all things and surprisingly Lisa Turpin got the highest mark in Astronomy.

“It’s simple,” she said by way of explanation. Padma Patil teased her about it, but Harry only congratulated her.

So it was in good spirits and rested muscles that Harry and the rest of the Hogwarts students packed their things away and made their way home for the summer. Harry enjoyed the last few moments with his friends on the train ride back and hugged each of them before left; Turpin seemed reluctant, but surrendered eventually. So it was with a promise to write that they each parted ways on the station.

Harry made is way towards the smiling crowd of people waiting for him at the station. Not only were his parents there for him, but so were Sirius and Remus. All of them stood there waving and smiling at him and Harry remembered what the Mirror of Erised had said he wanted most. Right now he was only an Order of Merlin short from attaining his deepest wish.

All was well.

**BOOK ONE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much happened here, was hinted at here, or was hidden from here. Honestly the editing on this chapter was by far the hardest of any the entire book. Regardless, I can say I am almost completely satisfied with how it turned out. Hopefully you are, too.  
> All that remains is the reference chapter, which should be out in a week or two, but I bet you are wondering about Book Two? I can say that is already in production, but only slightly. I have the outlines and stuff worked out, but I am currently focusing on other story ideas.  
> In the end, though; I hope you at least enjoyed my take on a different Harry first year at Hogwarts.


End file.
